


Till Fate Do Us Part

by Seamless_Boundaries



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Doomed Relationship, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, M/M, Prophecy, Romance, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:54:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 36,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22465999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seamless_Boundaries/pseuds/Seamless_Boundaries
Summary: In a world where the oracles of ancient Greece have been revived in the form of James Moriarty, a prophecieer with an uncanny knack of having all his prophesies fulfilled, he makes another that will shake the world.The prophecy of the meeting of the greatest lover's of all time, that is destined to break apart in the end. What will happen when the two lovers are discovered to be an invalided army doctor and a junkie?
Relationships: Harry Watson & John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1: The Greatest Prophecy of All Time

Two weeks after it happened, almost everyone who had the facility of the internet had seen the video. John had been one of the first few ten thousand people who'd seen it first hand on the show. 

_ The Greatest Prophecy Of All Time.  _

Some people argued that the title was inappropriate, considering it would only affect the lives of two people, but already it had become popular amongst the public. 

With approximately 40 million views on YouTube, the clip was slightly grainy, since it was a behind the scenes camera that had shot it. It began with Graham Norton and Jim Moriarty talking animatedly, and the former laughing at a joke, when Moriarty suddenly froze. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, and his upper body swayed rhythmically as though in a trace. Graham put a hand on his shoulder, concerned for his well-being, and then James Moriarty delivered his prophecy. 

His voice that always had a dreamy quality due to his Irish lilt seemed even more dazed, and despite the swaying, clear.

_ " Two souls of strangers, bound by scarlet light, though will be the greatest lovers of all time, and their love will be strong and true, yet all will lead to its inevitable demise." _

If James Moriarty had any fame at all to his name before, it was nothing compared to the hysteria all around him after this. He became a household name, with people anxiously awaiting more information on the prophecy. Tabloids all over the world were sent into a frenzy, each covering at least a page on the Seer, his life, and his earlier prophecies. 

John had read quite a bit on him, and now understood why Moriarty's fame had rocketed so suddenly. Before this he was a man whose predictions were mainly on the economy and politics, but nothing so dramatic as the greatest lovers to ever live who would eventually fall apart. 

_ Everyone needed a bit of drama in their lives _ , John supposed. 

Which is why he was standing near a tall pole with a red stone attached to its top, in London Street. A bored looking guard was sitting beside the roped off pole, in case someone tried to steal the stone. Not that it was of any considerable value, John had read, but simply because of its alleged powers. 

Moriarty had explained in later interviews with Graham, that on the 29th of January, the moonlight would hit the stone at the correct angle for it to refract into two red beams, which were to fall on each half of the lucky couple. 

It was 7:48 now, and scientists had predicted the angle would be optimum at 7:52. The massive crowd around John impatiently waited for the last few minutes to go by. Most critics had hailed this to be bullshit, though they could not say much in front of Moriarty's impressive track record-- it had been a rare prophecy of his that had proved to be wrong, as he had an uncanny knack for guessing the future, whether it was a trick or real powers.

John did not believe in it much either, but when faced with his dull, suffocating flat and his lonely and desolate existence, John had decided he would rather face it and go to London Street, for whatever small excitement he could get.

Sighing to himself, he looked around at the crowd of Londoners interspersed with several news media outlets' minions, poised with their cameras, ready to capture the lucky couple. There was a marked absence of any celebrities-- to the disappointment of many, the prophet had later revealed that according to his visions, the lucky couple would not possess any fame or public recognition. Many fan favourite celebrity couples were automatically thrown out of the game then. 

Still, John supposed, the two would be quite something to look at-- he imagined men and women with beautiful faces and successful careers, perfect to be the greatest lovers ever. He had no hopes of him being one half-- no one wanted a broken, invalided army doctor.

His self misery was momentarily paused as he felt a sudden electricity in the air, there was a collective humming of the crowd and someone shouted "Only 20 seconds to go!" There was a loud cheer and then the countdown began, and feeling a little foolish, John joined in.

No more than 43 people away, a man was combing through the crowds thoroughly, when he caught the eyes of a Detective Inspector. He gave the Inspector a subtle nod and continued his search. They would soon move to the secondary location the killer was to go to solidify his alibi, where Detective Donovan and additional officers were already stationed. Sherlock Holmes was certain the killer would be here tonight, using the crowds as an effective cover.

People around him began their ridiculous countdown, and a man next to Sherlock looked at him encouragingly, as if expecting him to join in the baloney. Sherlock pointedly ignored him, sneering. Of course, he wasn't part of all this soothsaying and in fact he'd only become aware of the whole charade from the chatty Mrs Hudson. 

Until now, according to Sherlock, five males fit the description of the killer, as per an account by the neighbour: almost six feet, white, blonde, with an 'S' tattooed under the ear on his neck-- the man had unwittingly run into the neighbor in the building lift. But he needed to be closer in order to be sure. 

A sudden hush fell over the crowd around him as they all held their breaths, and Sherlock realised the countdown had ended-- two delusional people would be forcefully united under the farce of a heavenly premonition. 

Shaking his head in disapproval, he decided that it was better if he left now, who knew if it would be possible to escape the crowd once the poor bastards were found out. 

He looked over the head of a man to Lestrade to signal that they should leave. He was jerking his head towards a street, when Sherlock noticed that the DI was staring, half gaping at him, and Sherlock fumed at the latter's stupidity. Did he want to blow their cover? It was then that he noticed that Sergeant Donovan was also making similar faces at him.

_ Really _ , Sherlock thought to himself,  _ could their incompetence have risen to such an extent? _ He'd always sneered at it, but he hadn't expected them to drop this low--

A woman screamed from beside him. Alarmed, he quickly turned to look at what mishap had occurred, and found her wide eyes stuck to his forehead. "It's on him! Him!" She was violently gesturing to his face, and Sherlock stood, confused, for a moment. And then it dawned on him. 

_ Oh for the love of God,  _ no _. _

Not  _ him.  _

He could almost feel it then, the intensity with which the beam would have been concentrated on his forehead, unable to penetrate his brain, bright red on his pale skin. He was the poor bastard. 

He tried to make a quick departure--really, he did. But the crowd now surround him, gaping and pointing and congratulating and cheering, no longer separate people but a single entity: all encompassing, overwhelming.

Sherlock's hand reached up to touch the spot he thought the beam would be, withdrew it, expecting somehow for red paint to come off as if from the target that had been painted on him. Irritatingly, Lestrade and Donovan were nowhere to be found. 

Hardly a few seconds later, a cheer came from not far away, and the detective groaned. Another fish caught.  _ Reel her in _ , he thought, expecting a gorgeous woman to step forward. 

Back at where John was standing, as he was looking around, he caught the eye of a little girl hoisted on her father's shoulder, and smiled before his attention was diverted to some noise from the crowd on the opposite side. 

He stepped on the tip of his toes, trying to get a decent look, when the girl he'd smiled at shouted "Daddy! The dot, the red dot!" She excitedly pointed at John, nearly falling from her father's grip in her excitement. Her father balanced her properly, and turned towards John, "Cheers mate!" 

John looked down at his chest. Right at the centre, where his heart would be inside his rib cage, a small red dot danced brightly. He staggered and took a step back: feeling like how someone who was shot in the chest would feel. His heart was beating a mile an hour, and any moment he expected the blood to come gushing out of the red space. 

Everything was too slow and too fast all at once, and his body involuntary shrank into itself as stranger hands were all over him-- patting their approval, shaking hands with his, calling out to him. He tried to smile, but he felt drunk-- more specifically a drunk man about to empty all of it out. 

This surely wasn't right. There must have been some mistake. He looked at the man behind him:  _ yes that'd be it _ , he thought. It must have been that man behind him, and John just got in the way. He tried to explain this to the man in question, but amidst all the chaos the man simply smiled widely and shook his hand. 

No no no. This was all wrong. You weren't supposed to pick the broken army doctor. 

John could hear and see the commotion on the opposite side, and felt a wave of nervousness hit him without warning. He tried to stand a bit straighter, imagined a beautiful, gorgeous woman coming up to him and smiling at him, but he was feeling ridiculously inadequate in his stupid jumpers and his cane. 

Like the ocean parted for Jonah, as John would later describe it, the crowd parted all at once, and just like that, the two soulmates stood facing each other. 

It was, quite a bit of a shock, to say the least. 

There was a deathly, shocked silence among the crowd, as everyone came to terms with the fact that they were two men. It wasn't blatant homophobia, really, just that the whole thing had seemed to be such a perfect heterosexual fantasy, that they'd not considered seriously it being a gay couple. 

Nor had apparently John and Sherlock. They stood, for a moment, then a little more longer, unsure, squinting across the distance to ascertain if it really was a man like it looked to be.

Unbidden, defensiveness flared up in John's chest, and immediately he wanted to protest that he wasn't gay, and that surely this was a mistake, and so John opened his mouth in an attempt to speak. But, by doing so, he broke the spell, and all around him chaos once again ensued, swallowing whatever he had to say in his defence.

Maybe the crowd was overly supportive, but more likely it was compensating for the initial awkwardness, because the audience clapped harder than they should have for very long, and cameras snapped a little more than usual. As if pushed by the sheer will of the crowd, John and Sherlock slowly gravitated towards each other, John wondering if now was the time to announce that he wasn't gay, and the detective squeezing in a few deductions. 

They stood a good few inches apart, and surveyed each other, and Sherlock inwardly sighed at John's slightly defensive posture. Any minute now the man would start telling him how he wasn't gay. It was exhausting to have to be with sexually repressed people like this. But what Sherlock really wanted right now was to get out of here, and to the next scene where his murderer would be. And the man in front of him was not helping his cause one bit. 

And so he smiled in a manner he hoped could be called "winning" and brought his hand forward in a manner of a handshake proposal. Evidently anything romantic would be out of this man's comfort zone to feign. So, a handshake it was. 

"Hi, I'm Sherlock." 

At first John was mute and still, before some basic reflex in him made him shake hands with Sherlock. "John. I'm John Watson." He broke out, pathetically, having added the surname because his own name seemed very inadequate in the face of 'Sherlock'. 

Around them the crowd cheered once more at what was the first contact between them, and John could see that whatever was holding the reporters at bay until now was about to collapse-- like vultures circling their meal. The cameras grew closer, and John felt distinctly uncomfortable. 

'Sherlock', all in all, was a very startling man. Startling in the sense that everything, from his pointed, alien features, to his deep, rumbling baritone was, well, unexpected. But then, their entire situation was unexpected.

John wished, a little desperately now, that he could get out of here, everything about his current predicament felt wrong. 

As if John had spoken out loud, Sherlock's face reacted to his thought and he was beginning to say something, when a mic was shoved into his face. 

_ Ah, the vultures were digging in _ . "Sir, what is your name? How do you feel about this? Do you love him? Sir," the reporter turned to John, "do you love him?"

John was exasperated, puffing up his chest and wanting to ask, how exactly did they expect him to love Sherlock when they'd only just met?  _ Not that I could ever love Sherlock _ , John corrected himself,  _ I'm not gay _ .

And so the army doctor looked at Sherlock with a 'crazy, right?' look, and then Sherlock grabbed his collar and whispered into John's ear, "Can we get out of here?" 

_ Fuck _ , John thought, trying desparately to suppress the shiver that that voice had caused him. Externally, John steadied himself with his cane and replied, "Oh god yes." 

  
  



	2. The Human Hurricane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock go to meet Mycroft.

"I really don't know how we're going to get a cab here." John said, rubbing his forehead with his thumb, using his cane to support himself, trying to look beyond the countless heads. 

Sherlock, distracted, gave a non-committal hum.They were standing at the edge of the crowd circling the pole and it's ruby; people were remarkably easy to fool once they were part of a crowd. 

He lifted his hand to signal for a cab, and like magic, it seemed to John, one appeared from around the corner. Once inside, Sherlock gave the driver the name of a place John vaguely knew about. The detective produced a phone and was about to type out something, when he gave out a frustrated sigh. 

"For heaven's sake! No reception. Despite us being out in the open." He turned to John with a look. "Could you lend me yours?" 

John looked at Sherlock, at the cab driver, wondering if this was an elaborate trap for him to be kidnapped-- then realised no one would make such an effort to kidnap  _ him _ , who had little to no value attached to himself.  _ To hell with it _ , he thought, he had nothing to look forward to but an empty flat and some bland dinner. Anything could easily one up that. Especially the man beside him. Even if it  _ was _ a kidnapping. 

"Sure," John replied, fishing out his own phone and handing it to Sherlock. 

Sherlock sent a quick text to an unknown number, and told John that it was his colleague at the Yard who they were going to meet. John felt more uncomfortable as he remembered he had little knowledge of where they were heading. He chuckled nervously. 

Sherlock turned to him with a raised eyebrow, " Why are you laughing?"

"Nothing, it's just that-" John tried to make it sound as less like an accusation as he could. "I just followed you into a cab to an unknown location and you have my phone and we don't even know a single thing about each other. Not to mention…" he jerked his head to the side, hoping to imply the whole "greatest lovers of all time" business. 

A slightly smug look passed over Sherlock's features. "I wouldn't say that I don't know 'a single thing' about you". 

John would not stop thinking how fantastic Sherlock's next words were for the rest of the night. 

********

Resounding starkly against the silent streets, their feet--as they fell on the gravel--were in perfect tandem, the night air cool to John's lungs, bringing him back to life with each lungful. 

They'd run quite a distance before they'd caught the murderer, who fled in a last desperate attempt at eluding arrest. 

John had skillfully tackled the considerably larger man, and Sherlock had helped pin the culprit firmly to the ground until the Yard caught up, and the fellow was handcuffed and taken care of.

Sherlock was now narrating in a steady stream the key pieces of evidence that were to be integral in the man's trial, frequently intoned with exclamations of admiration from John. Lestrade stood next to them jotting down as much as he could into his notebook, also seeming impressed, though looking rather subdued when compared to the open, marveling ejaculations from John. 

Even now, after the danger had passed, the adrenaline pumped through John's viens, burning him inside and out with the desire to climb a mountain, swim across the ocean, run once again with the man beside him madly into the dark London Streets. The sensation that had coursed through John as he'd wrestled the murderer onto the ground still tingled on his skin, sending aftershocks like the result of a particularly good climax. 

John wanted to live in it in an infinite loop, wanted to preserve the memories for later when the still air of his flat threatened to suffocate him once all this was over, as it surely would. 

In comparison, the crowds that they'd only just managed to escape an hour ago seemed tame. Somehow, like a magician, Sherlock had led John past the masses that were closing in on them, and had summoned a cab from thin air, sweeping away an awestruck John. 

John wasn't sure this night had been real at all. 

"This should be sufficient evidence to convict him, I believe. Even the dullest jury could not miss seeing the obvious case I've built up, and you always were rather good at selling it to them." Sherlock lightly patted Lestrade on the shoulder and smirked, turning to John. 

" Sherlock, that was fantastic! Especially how you deduced that the murder weapon was the same as the mantle piece from the wound." Sherlock preened, trying not to positively  _ glow _ from all the praise. 

Lestrade, on the other hand, now switched back from his DI persona, and at once pounced upon Sherlock. "Sherlock, what the hell happened back there? Did you two seriously just get selected at the greatest lovers of all time?" His eyes were bulging with incredulity, mouth slightly agape as he took in John Watson. 

"Oh, Lestrade, all of that was utterly ridiculous." Sherlock said disdainfully as if he possibly couldn't be bothered to care about it. 

"Of course you would say that mate. But the public isn't going to think the same. They're really invested in all of this, you know. They're going to want to know everything about you two and your relationship." Lestrade looked somewhat satisfied at having given his warning, though he still looked concerned for the two. 

Beside him, Sherlock saw John stiffen, straighten up his back as if readying himself for an attack. It looked like John had a sexuality crisis to overcome. 

"The public is known to lose whatever little IQ each person possesses individually when part of a crowd. Thankfully this allows them to flit from topic to topic rather quickly, and I'm sure we'll find them quite bored of us by the time the week ends."

Lestrade looked like he had other opinions but merely shrugged, resigned. 

A few minutes later found Sherlock and John walking onto the main Street from the alleyway, debating whether or not to visit a nearby shop with excellent Chinese, and were about to make the turn towards the said eatery when a long black car slid silently beside them, and though John had barely even noticed it, Sherlock immediately stopped and executed a theatrical sigh,"Mycroft, do stop budging in with your insufferably large nose!" 

The car door opened wordlessly, and without the slightest hint of any explanation, Sherlock slid in looking dramatically resigned. He looked out at John expectantly. John of course agreed, as he could not possibly leave Sherlock alone in what seemed like a dangerous situation. 

Inside, John saw that on the front seat, other than the driver of course--who was silent and machine like in his nondescript black suit and competent, gliding movements-- was a pretty woman absorbed in her cell phone, chatting avidly with someone or the other. 

She looked up from her phone for a second, shot a dazzling smile at Sherlock, and to John's fancy, at him too, and returned to her conversation. 

"Umm, Sherlock?" John whispered to the detective, worry creasing his face. Despite the fact that it seemed to John that they were kidnapped by someone, perhaps a potential enemy, he found that Sherlock was oddly relaxed; and other than some disdain thrown in the general direction of no one in particular, seemed fine. He looked at John with pleasant curiosity, betraying no evidence that his brain was at work behind the facade to help them escape, John was sure."Thought of a plan yet? To y'know, escape?"

Sherlock sighed dramatically and then spoke, in a volume that was a lot louder than a kidnapped individual should be using to discuss escaping plans in, in  _ front _ of their captor,"There is no escape from the tedium of Mycroft, John. You'll soon know that. Like a particularly obnoxious government form. There's no way to get out of it than to be done and over with it."

_What the hell was Sherlock on about?_ _Maybe_ , it occurred to John with some relief, _that the threat was not as big as he'd previously assumed._ Still a bit unsure, he gently nudged the man beside him. "We're safe, aren't we?"

Sherlock gave John an amused smirk. "I thought it was the danger that made you stick around."

The army doctor could not help but break into a smile at that. It suddenly occurred to him that he'd completely forgotten about the whole Prophecy thing, and it's subsequent implications. He shook his head with a slight smile.

Being with Sherlock Holmes meant whizzing around multiple adventures at once. A human hurricane, this man was. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I've come outta hiding after a long time. But recently I had a lot of projects piling up and I now that I had time, well, I wrote up two chapters and intend to write it all the way to the end, YAY


	3. Mycroft, The Proprietor of a Cheesy Hollywood Romance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An agreement is made, and the story begins.

The woman, who's name Sherlock said was Anthea, dropped them at what looked like a parking lot to John--a desolated, empty parking lot--and he still wasn't sure if this wasn't a threat, Sherlock was oddly relaxed if that was. But one thing reassured him: the detective knowing Anthea's name; maybe they'd been through this before and Sherlock was at least physically unscathed from it. 

"Brother mine." 

John jumped in surprise as the voice echoed suddenly, and turned around, trying to find its source. It was a restrained, refined accent with a tone that was perfectly bland to engage in diplomatic discussions. From the shadows emerged a tall man with a suit as finely cut as Sherlock's, and an umbrella gripped lazily in his right hand, with a constipated smile gracing his features. 

Sherlock was unperturbed though visibly venemous towards the man; and John supposed, now becoming alert, that this was an old enemy. "Mycroft, why did you bring us here?"

"You know why, Sherlock. Your little  _ adventure _ today evening has caused quite the buzz. You and your friend here, 'John Watson'." Mycroft gestured lightly to John with a nod, as if talking about a pet or a child. 

"Sherlock," John whispered to Sherlock with urgency, "how does he know my name?" John suddenly felt exposed. A name wasn't much really, but, somehow, from this man who emanated so much power, John was sure that Mycroft had information on just about everything he'd ever done. 

Mycroft answered instead. "Give it another twenty four hours, and the media will know it too. They're quite efficient these days, especially if they managed to get a photograph." 

John gulped as he remembered the endless snapping of the cameras. 

"It'll pass over once they realise there's nothing to gossip about." Sherlock said airily, voicing once again what he'd said to Lestrade. 

"No they will not, Sherlock, don't play the fool. They will follow you and prod you to get something out, and if you don't make something up,  _ they _ will. You will never have any peace, and they will ensure that they tear your reputation to pieces."

As much as John tried to suppress the words, they floated up to the surface of his mind anyway.  _ Like Major Sholto.  _

But why was this man with his smug face and his umbrella saying all of this to Sherlock. It did not quite fit the image of the dangerous criminal John had been assuming him to be. 

"Who are you?" He asked, with hostility openly audible in his voice. 

Mycroft said something at the same time that Sherlock spat out,"My brother." 

"Your--  _ brother _ ?" John said incredulously, looking utterly confused and befuddled.  _ Not an arch enemy then, huh.  _

"Yes, I am Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother, and occupy a minor position in the British government." Mycroft said in a mechanical, faux-polite sort of way, as if he'd repeated the statement many times to many others. 

Beside John, Sherlock snorted. " _ Minor _ position? Don't let that fool you John, he  _ is _ practically the British government. It's why he's such a pompous arsehole." 

Mycroft's face turned to something similar to what one would have after tasting a sour lemon, though he tactfully ignored Sherlock's insult. Turning to the army doctor he briefly surveyed him, before frowning slightly and producing a pocket diary which he consulted. He looked up at Sherlock to interrogate about whatever discrepancy he'd found, when suddenly his features cleared. They soon, however, resumed their earlier permanent sneer. "Inside your coat? Really, Sherlock?" 

Sherlock merely shrugged, side eyeing John, and then returning to the conversation. "What do you want?" 

"To save face Sherlock, both yours and mine. And," he added, lightly gesturing to John, "him too, I suppose." 

John did not like the gesture, and felt like Sherlock's pet rather than an actual human standing beside him. He felt the need to assert himself somehow, and therefore asked, "And how do you think we do that?" 

Mycroft paused, impressed by John's cut-to-the-chase attitude, which made the army doctor wonder how little he'd thought of John before. "Rather simple, Mr. Watson. You and Sherlock pretend to be in a fake relationship for a month or two, with a subsequent breakup. 

"This will appropriately fulfil the required Prophecy, and allow the public, and therefore, both of you, to move on." He really made it all seem so simple and straightforward, and John could imagine him with the delegation of another country, diplomacy that almost fell into manipulation. 

"Really, Mycroft? Whatever are you, the proprietor of some cheesy Hollywood romance? There are a million other ways to go about this than to pretend we're characters from an imbecilic movie trope." Sherlock sniffed in indignation. 

While Sherlock was probably too hard on romcoms, John agreed with him wholeheartedly. Besides, the mere thought of anything romantic with Sherlock--this gorgeous, unbelievable detective --well, John wasn't keen on  having a sexual identity crisis. 

"Oh yes, of course, I am suggesting this scheme because I am a romantic at heart." Sarcasm dripped like venom from the older Holmes as he sneered in disgust. "Besides, you were always the more emotional one." 

At this, Sherlock bared his teeth angrily, "Why do you care so much about this, anyway? Oh," realization dawned upon the detective, his sharp features growing sharper. "Moriarty. James Moriarty. You need the prophecy to come true to protect his credibility. But why? Surely Mycroft, you wouldn't have sunk down low enough to  _ work _ with him?" Sherlock's voice grew more and more derisive with every word, effectively irking his elder brother.

"Brother mine, don't go down paths you have no idea of. Moriarty is my concern, and currently you have enough of yours to encounter.

"Tell me, did you consider at all what would happen if you, with your nonchalance, decided to tell the media the truth? They'd never believe you and you will never have a moment's rest. They'll make up evidence and conspiracies until they can prove what they want. You'll be stalked for your lifetime, not to mention the  _ Work-- _ " 

Mycroft had laid special emphasis there that John could not decipher, but evidently it has served its purpose, because Sherlock burst out. "Leave it  _ alone _ , Mycroft. And use some other dirty trick to convince me that there is more to it than  _ your _ ulterior motives."

Mycroft sighed in exasperation, and took a deep breath, as if about to reason with a very obnoxious five year-old. John could see why Sherlock didn't like Mycroft all that much. He didn't like to be treated like he was still the annoying younger brother. 

"Sherlock, the media will ruin, not only your life, but John's, as well as mine. With some minor cooperation, this debacle can be over as soon as a month or two, and all of us can continue with our lives. And besides, then I'd owe you a favour." 

Out of all the reasoning that Mycroft had extrapolated, perhaps the last sentence was the only incentive that had any effect on Sherlock. 

"Fine then," he said looking smug, "but I will need File 0A223JPJ." he studied his older brother's face carefully, as if expecting some resistance.  _ Evidently, this file held some very confidential data, _ John thought. 

Mycroft looked long and hard at Sherlock, and then at John, as if re-evaluating if the trade off was worth it, then stood up a little straighter, with the air of a judge giving a verdict. "Very well. In return you will be posing as a fake couple for whatever amount of time necessary, doing whatever it takes to convince the public, perhaps even attend a press conference or two. And then the falling out. Are we in agreement?" 

Before John could consider the plan fully, Sherlock stepped forward and shook hands with the older Holmes, then turned and walked to John. "You are willing to participate, aren't you?"

John wasn't too sure-- it was all happening rather quickly for him to adequately reason it out. But Mycroft was right: the media would get whatever they wanted, no matter what the cost. Again, the face of Sholto flashed across John's mind and he gulped. Then he looked at the brilliant, definitely mad, outlandishly beautiful consulting detective. Maybe it wouldn't be that bad after all. "Fine," he acquiesced in the end, "but the next time maybe ask me that question  _ before _ you make a major decision, yeah?" 

Sherlock grinned. "Sure."

Behind them, Mycroft cleared his throat. "You'll be living together in some quarters I imagine. Should I recommend one? It can be made habitable in half an hour."

"What? We'll be living together?" John took a step back. Wasn't this too much all at once? 

"Yes. Starting immediately I should presume, if you want any success at all. It will also give you adequate privacy, and give you the necessary exposure as a couple to the media. You need to appear as much in love as possible to shorten the time period." Mycroft's facial expression twisted as he said the word 'love', gave John a smile whose politeness was closer to a grimace. 

_ Oh well _ , John thought,  _ that does make sense _ . He tried to imagine them, him and the human hurricane that was Sherlock, living in his small, army issued flat. He tried to imagine the detective with those dull, gloomy four walls that never got enough sunlight. 

He couldn't.

"Oh no need for any arrangements, Mycroft." Sherlock waved his hand in cheery dismissal. "The one at Baker Street will do splendidly."

John took that with equal amounts of surprise and relief. Not his place then. 

"Very well. Dr. Watson, your things are being shifted to Baker Street as we speak." Apparently Mycroft had managed to text his people in the ten second window of silence.

" Alright- wait a minute, how did you get my address?!"

******

The air outside was cool and crisp, with enough breeze for their walk to be enjoyable. Sherlock had insisted that they didn't need Mycroft's "taxi services". 

Like before, somehow, they were in perfect rhythm, and John suspected it was Sherlock who was keeping up the tandem. 

"So where are we headed towards?" John asked.  _ I'm taking this surprisingly well, _ he thought to himself. All in one night, he'd been declared one of the greatest lovers of all time, had manhandled a criminal onto the ground, and had agreed to participate in a fake relationship to fool the rest of the world. 

And somehow, he was still sane. 

And so was Sherlock, really. He turned his head to look at the Detective, gaunt and beautiful in an eerily alien like way. He looked like he did these kind of things everyday. 

" The flat on Baker Street. The landlady owes me a favour. We'll get it at half the rent." John felt a wave of panic rise and subside very quickly. He had completely forgotten about rent, and other mundane, everyday things. They just didn't seem to matter as much with Sherlock. 

Nevertheless John was glad the rent would be low. He was still an army pensioner, no matter who waltzed into his life. 

John nodded. Sherlock gave a small smile, and then he did a little double take, like he had just remembered something. His eyes lit up with something John couldn't quite place, and his hand reached inside his coat. "You'd forgotten something back at the crime scene. I picked it up for you." 

Then, he removed John's cane, now folded, like a magician presenting a trick, with a little flourish. 

_ My cane. Shit. _

John looked down at the cane, then at his leg which somehow still held him upright, followed by Sherlock's face, aglow with laughter and a little mischief. And then back at the cane. 

He wanted to ask how Sherlock had known it was psychosomatic. He wanted to know how Sherlock had managed to distract him like this. He wanted to ask how Sherlock had fixed it so easily like magic. 

He wanted to ask Sherlock if  _ he _ was magic.

Instead he asked, "How the hell did you hide it in your coat, without me knowing?"

And Sherlock laughed, deep and ringing and beautiful, and then John couldn't help but join in. 

John later thought that the moment had something special in it, a dream like glow to everything. 

Gradually, they stopped, and looked at each other, until they weren't just looking. They were staring now, eyes soft with laughter and hope. But then Sherlock's eyes swerved to John's right with lightning speed and his face dropped its softness. He was razor sharp now, both his eyes and his features. The force with which his mental apparatus was at work could almost be physically felt. 

John turned around to look at what had caused this change. He thought he saw a shadow. 

"John," Sherlock's voice held some urgency to it, and also a hint of excitement. "Someone was following us, and it wasn't Mycroft's minions."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say, except, ANOTHER CHAPTER.


	4. Baker Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys at Baker Street and John's first night

The person who'd been following them had disappeared into the shadows. But there was a possibility that they would be followed further. 

"Well it must be someone from the Press who followed us from London Street, after we-- got selected." John was suddenly acutely aware of the agreement he'd made inside, and  _ what _ they'd been selected for. He'd have to pretend to love this man for two months. 

_ Pretend _ . 

"No, John. If it was someone from the press, they'd have taken our picture back there, done some research to find out our names, and would have been waiting for us at one of our residences. 

"Any ordinary reporter would have backed down after we were finished with the Yard. They have to turn in a write up about us to print tomorrow, they won't waste time tailing us right now." Sherlock signalled John to look ahead.They pretended that they hadn't seen anything, though they were pretty sure the person tailing them was already aware of being caught. 

John and Sherlock now made their way to Baker Street, the cane held lightly in John's hands, all but forgotten.

"Who do you think it's then, if not the Press?" John's face creased into worry and concentration. He knew too well the ill effects that came with being famous, his commander had received  _ death threats _ for God's sake. 

"Don't know yet, but I do have a hunch. We'll get Mycroft's minions to do a background check. And for that we need to lure him to Baker Street. So onward, John!"

"Him? How do you know it was a man?" John asked with a small, teasing smile. 

"I saw the stature of the person. I'm quite sure it was man. Why are you asking me that? Did you see something to imply the opposite?" 

John shook his head, the thought of being sexist probably wouldn't even have occurred to Sherlock. 

They walked the rest of the way in silence, trying to feign casualness, hoping the Shadow had not been scared off. 

"'Shadow'?" John threw a jibe at Sherlock," What are you? James Bond?" He asked, laughing. Sherlock asked John with utter seriousness who James Bond was, and therefore, John decided that a Bond Movie Marathon would be taken up the first weekend they had. 

But then he stopped in his tracks when he realised he was already making plans with Sherlock. 

*****

From the series of houses lined up in Baker Street, Sherlock rang the doorbell for the one with a "221 B" plaque on a dark wood door, beside a cafe called 'Speedy's'. They were greeted by a cheery, old housekeeper. 

"Oh Sherlock!" She chirped brightly and took him into her arms. She then proceeded to hug John with the same amount of warmth. 

John was a bit surprised when Sherlock willingly accepted the hug and looked at her with fondness. Somehow John hadn't expected that cold yet brilliant face to turn so soft and warm with love.  _ A good look on him _ , he thought with a smile. 

"They're upstairs putting down all the boxes--well, three boxes." She said to them, pointing towards a flight of stairs that led up to a flat. 

John walked inside and looked up, and then with a questioning look, at Sherlock. Who were these "they"? 

Sherlock shrugged and they went upstairs, Mrs Hudson finishing up the rear with her relatively slow yet steady pace. Two people were upstairs putting down boxes into a corner of an otherwise very shabby, yet eccentric room, full of odds and ends placed at the most unrelated spots. 

One of them looked up at the doctor as he stepped inside, still clutching his cane. "Doctor Watson," she said, motioning to the three boxes, "your items from the previous flat have all been moved here, as per Mr. Holmes' orders." 

John looked up at Sherlock, confused, before he understood that the Mr Holmes here was Mycroft, and the terms of his agreement came back to him. 

"Er, thanks." He said with an awkward nod. 

"John dear," Mrs Hudson mused, looking at the small stack, "are you sure that it is all? They must have missed a few boxes."

She meant it kindly. Of course she did. John had looked at the bright, loving smile she'd given Sherlock and known that this woman was all love and kindness. 

"Uh, yes, Mrs Hudson, I think this is all." John rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment. Mycroft's minions thought it the appropriate time to leave and silently exited the flat. 

How was John to explain the sparse, suffocating lifestyle he led in his army pension flat, that was too small to add any more furniture in it? 

Perhaps Mrs Hudson sensed that she'd said some wrong, because she flashed a motherly smile at John, and with a bit more cheeriness in her voice-- though it was all genuine-- said, "John! Tell me, would you like some tea and biscuits? Though mind you," she was already bustling into the kitchen, not waiting for an answer, "It's just this once, I'm not your housekeeper!" 

Sherlock just rolled his eyes and removed his scarf and coat, motioning John to do the same. He then swept back the curtains with his hand and looked outside. "Ah, our tail has followed us home. I believe Mycroft will look into that, the nosy big brother that he is."

John surveyed the room before him, eyeing a few things with more disapproval than others. "It would make a pretty good place, I reckon, once we get rid of all of this rubbish." 

He didn't expect Sherlock to turn around so swiftly. "Uh, I-I suppose I could move around a thing or two." 

Sherlock looked-- flustered? That was  _ definitely _ not what John had expected to see. The detective moved around a book lying face down, and nervously set the things on the mantle right. 

Before John could muster up an apology without laughing out loudly, Mrs Hudson joined the scene. "Sherlock, you have made a proper mess of my flat. You really need to clean it, dear."

John grinned at her, and she uttered a small gasp, remembering something. "Oh yes, and there's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be  _ needing _ two bedrooms."She gave John a very knowing, piercing look, and it made the army doctor make a mental note in his head: his landlady was a  _ lot _ more than the sweet, kind lady he'd made her out to be. 

He was about to stutter out a "Of course we'll be needing two bedrooms, we're not together or anything--" when Sherlock interrupted. 

"For now Mrs Hudson, yes we'll be needing two bedrooms." He then looked at John, "later on, when the press will be all up on our windows, you'll need to move into mine." And then he remembered something, and added, "if that's alright with you, of course." 

John appreciated his request being acted upon, and flashed Sherlock a reassuring grin. "It's alright. Oh, and Sherlock," a thought had entered his mind, "we need to work on some ground rules later." 

Sherlock nodded a little absentmindedly. And thenn Mrs Hudson asked to be filled in about the situation. Once John had given a brief summary of all that had occured without too much throat clearing, and, to his horror,  _ blushing _ , Mrs Hudson let out a delighted laugh. 

"The greatest lovers of all time? Oh, I always knew Sherlock had a beautiful heart! John, I really am glad about the whole thing!" 

Sherlock, to John's annoyance, said nothing to dispel Mrs Hudson's incorrect assumptions, and so decided to say it himself. "We're not a couple, Mrs Hudson, we're just pretending to be one."

"If not now, then soon." She reassuringly patted John on his shoulder, once again giving him the knowing look that said she knew something that they didn't. She placed a cup of tea on the side table and went downstairs to fetch a plate of biscuits. 

John tried to ignore her comment and walked up to the kitchen table where a microscope lay with some meat like substance on a Petri dish."Is this a setup for an experiment? What's in that dish?"

Sherlock, who was engrossed in his phone, looked up with a small smile, and then raised his eyebrows, "Yes it is. But I do not think you'll want to know what is in that Petri dish."

When John looked like he might want to probe further, Sherlock quickly picked up his violin case. "The violin, John! I play the violin and do not talk for days on an end sometimes."

"Oh, that's nice. Do you play well? Of course you do. And why are you telling me all of this?" John was confused with this sudden change of topic and surprised by the fact that Sherlock played violin.  _ But then again, should I really be surprised?  _ He thought, amusingly. 

"I just thought potential flatmates should know the worst things about each other." Sherlock replied with a smile. 

"Flatmate?! I thought we were together!" John put a hand above his heart, face morphed into faux offence. 

Both of them laughed. There was a long haul ahead of them, and it was better to pretend that it would have no consequences other than harmless jokes like this one.

****

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter up, five and six coming very soon (in like a few days!)


	5. A Week We Were Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First morning in Baker Street, the first experience of fame and Mycroft being smug.

John had spent his first night in Baker Street staring up at the ceiling of his new, unfamiliar room, and looking at the new angle at which moonlight hit the walls. And then thinking about the strange man sleeping in a room below him, who solved crimes and did science experiments and played the violin and had a deep, beautiful laugh. 

He thought of the immense change that had already come into his life, the change that was to come. He didn't bother thinking about one thing though: how life would be once all of this was over. But 'this' had barely begun, and so such thoughts could be done away with for now. 

For now, there was the fake romance he had to play a part in, there was fooling the rest of the world, there was the fulfilling of the greatest prophecy of all time. 

And all these thoughts were enough to keep sleep at bay. Then, after a few hours of tossing and turning, John decided to write his blog. Ella had said it would help, and well, he had no better option. 

His fingers clicked away at the keyboard for an hour, partly because there was so much to write about, and partly because John was a slow typist: he pressed one key at a time with his index finger, and anyone who thought that was comical could go fuck themselves. 

By the time he was finished he was actually quite drowsy, as if all the pouring out had left him empty and tired. And therefore it was not with all the awareness that should have been there, that he clicked on the "Publish" button. 

He slept continuously if not very soundly for the rest of the night. 

***

The next day John woke up to a brighter room than he was used to, and a lot of noise that he wasn't used to, coming from the outside of the house. Even busy streets did not have this much commotion in the mornings. He checked a clock on the nightstand, it was ten past nine now. He'd slept longer than usual. 

He took a moment to gain his bearings and internalised the massive chain of events that had occurred the day before. Then, still rubbing his eyes, John trudged down the stairs, to find the reason behind all the noise outside. 

Downstairs, Sherlock had already woken up, and was at the window, though an acrid smell came from the containers in the set up on the kitchen table. The detective must have been up early, though John had no evidence that the man had slept at all. He had still been awake when John had gone to bed. 

"Good morning, Sherlock." John said politely, joining him at the window. "What's causing all the fu--" He stopped mid sentence, as he got his answer without the detective having to say anything. 

Below them on the pavement, and nearly on the road, hoards of people were standing, crowded all chatting with each other. Most of them were reporters, in the middle and the front of the crowd, with their cameras at ready. Then there was another group of mostly women- supporters, John guessed. And finally, to the extreme right, was a group of people with boards that looked like-- _Ugh,_ John thought , annoyed, _the anti-gay protesters. God, they're so annoying._

"Touching, is it not, the fan-base we have already acquired?" Sherlock had a sneer on his face that John supposed had more to do with _people_ being there than anything else. The detective drew the curtain close with a dramatic sweep, pacing the room. Then, he asked John, who was still peeking from behind the curtain, observing at the window, "John, take a good look at the crowd below. Do you notice anyone that seems out of place?"

At first John kept silent, hoping Sherlock would eventually tell him what he'd deduced, but he looked up to find the detective looking at him with an expectant look. "Um, not really," John rubbed his neck, thinking internally that too much was asked of him too soon. He needed to recover from sleep and everything else going on in his life. Which was, a _lot_. "There are a lot of people down there, hard to say."

"Well, look at the group of reporters. Go on." Sherlock had an encouraging look on his face that meant he was dead set on John figuring it out himself. 

Shaking his head but giving in, John looked carefully at the group of reporters that were in the midst of the crowd. He soon found what Sherlock might have been pointing to. "there's--this man. He doesn't have a camera. It's actually a-- it's a pair of binoculars. That's weird." 

"Very good John!" Sherlock looked very pleased with him. John couldn't help but feel a little happy himself, though he knew it was stupid. "Yes,binoculars! But why would a reporter carry binoculars? He would want a picture of us, if he were one."

"Oh," John thought he was getting a hang of this whole deduction thing, "So he's keeping a watch on us then?"

"Excellent. Yes. He is keeping a watch on us." Sherlock turned to face John with a serious expression, stepping closer to the army doctor. "Tell me, who would need to keep a lookout on us, and observe our actions? Who would stand to gain from this?"

"Uh,..." John muttered, _begging_ his brain to not draw a blank. Sherlock had stepped too close to him, and now John was ridiculously distracted by the detective's lips. Thinking was a bit hard, at the moment. "Mycroft?" He said stupidly. Anything was better than not being able to look away from his flatmate's lips. The fact that he might have to kiss them in the near future did not help at all.

Sherlock was about to tell John just how wrong he was when John's phone, which he'd absentmindedly left on the table last night-- no, John was quite sure he had kept it in his pocket-- rang. 

"How did my phone end up here?" John said with a confused look. He saw the expression on Sherlock's face turn slightly guilty, before the detective tried to deflect it by finding out who'd called John. 

His face contorted into disgust. "Mycroft. Talk about the devil." He said to John accusingly, as if John was to blame for this. 

The phone was all but thrown at John, who caught it deftly, much to Sherlock's approval. 

"Hello Mycroft." John did not possess much politeness at the moment, because he was still trying to figure out how his phone was here and what Sherlock had to do with it. 

"Hello Doctor Watson. I have tried to call Sherlock multiple times, but as always, he refuses to cooperate with anyone." Mycroft's tone had the same diplomatic tones heavily laced with sarcasm, and he put on a theatrical sigh for John's benefit.

"Hold on, I'll put you on speaker."Sherlock made a face to protest, not wanting to hear his brother's voice so early in the morning, though it was _always_ too early for that. 

"Yes, thank you." Mycroft's voice resonated loudly in the mostly silent room, calm in contrast to the chaos outside. "I trust you've read the newspapers and have felt the _effect_ of the events of last night. The public is deeply invested in you two already." 

"Uh, no actually, I haven't read the papers yet." John said, looking up at Sherlock expectantly, who'd been up who knew how long. 

"Here," Sherlock said gruffly, handing him the newspaper, "nothing we hadn't already anticipated." 

_Nothing_ you _hadn't already anticipated_ , John thought, _I have no fucking idea what's going to happen._

He unfolded the newspaper and looked up at the headline, in large, bold letters. 'RIDING OFF INTO THE _RAINBOW_?''

'Gaymen chosen to be the greatest lovers of all time.'

Below that was a very long article that was continued on page 2 and 3 apparently, and their names there-- probably Mycroft's handiwork to make things sail quicker-- and a picture of the two of them standing: John staring at Sherlock, slightly awestruck. Sherlock had his hand outstretched, likely calling out for a cab.

John coloured up instantly, not meeting Sherlock's eye. _Did I really look at the detective like that?_ John remembered all the praises he'd lavished at Sherlock the night before and wondered if this was what it had looked like to everyone else around them. _Oh god,_ he hoped not. 

"Yeah," he laughed awkwardly, still not meeting Sherlock's gaze, "it's a bit much." 

Mycroft, who'd been waiting patiently during the whole exchange, spoke up. "Yes, indeed. We now need to manage your media presence and therefore, you will not be stepping out of Baker Street for a whole week to mark your 'Honeymoon Period'." Mycroft's voice had more disdain dripping from it than John had ever heard anyone else's. 

"What?! We're not going to follow these imbecilic rules of yours, Mycroft. A whole week _inside_?" Sherlock protested vehemently, evidently not liking these restrictions. John wasn't too keen on them himself. 

"Sherlock, the media, once you face it, will bombard you with questions that neither of you are ready to answer, and I do not intend on our cover blowing so quickly. We are trying to publicise a romance and not a scandalous affair." John was surprised he didn't hear retching noises from the other end-- Mycroft had enough acid in his voice when he'd said 'romance'. 

"We'll have to stay in for one whole week?" It was more of a remark than a question from John's side. He'd only just met Sherlock, and he didn't know if the two of them would survive cooped up like that. 

"Yes, doctor Watson. Consider yourself on a 'lockdown'. One of my agents will constantly be at your call and will bring any necessities you ask for. Mrs Hudson can go in and out, as long as she uses the back door." 

"Mycroft! At least spare her from your antics." Sherlock sounded dramatically tired of it all, and John wouldn't have thought a theatrical slump of shoulders and sigh amiss. 

The Holmes brothers really did indulge in their own share of drama. 

"She will follow my 'antics' if she wants herself and you to be safe from the venom of the press. Also," it seemed like Mycroft had something particularly nasty to say, John could feel the smugness emanating from his mobile phone, "both of you will have to share a bedroom for as long as this lasts." 

There was a brief silence in which both of them soaked this in. Yes they did know they'd have to share a bedroom. But really, John had thought that it would only be for a day or two, so that later when they'd be asked John could tell everyone whether Sherlock was a snorer or not. 

But not everyday, for what was at least two months. That would be… _no_. That didn't bear thinking about. John had not forgotten his scandalous moment of distraction that had only been saved by Mycroft's call. 

"Everyday? Isn't- isn't that a bit much?" John said, hoping to God his voice wasn't as high pitched as it sounded to his own ears. 

"John, due to the architecture of baker Street, the two bedrooms in your flat are clearly visible to the person in the opposite building. There are a few old women living in adjacent flats who have a direct view to them, and are quite eager to talk to the press about everything that they see.

"If word gets out that you are sleeping in separate bedrooms-- the media will be printing 'Trouble In Paradise?' before we can ever start, and it will be a huge blow to us. We need to get through this as quickly as possible and a scandal will not help anyone." Mycroft seemed satisfied by this explanation, and indeed even Sherlock had nothing to criticize except a few grumpy mumbles. 

So. That was settled then.

"Umm, okay, I'll sleep on a mattress on the floor then." John said, and really, Sherlock couldn't object. They were practically strangers last night and this was too much to ask of either of them. 

"Very well, thank you for your cooperation. When all of this is over, we could offer you some," Mycroft made what John supposed was called a 'delicate pause', "monetary compensation." 

The refusal was on John's lips before he could even fully consider it, "No, no. That would be-- _no_ thank you."

He couldn't. John couldn't live with this man for two months and experience him in all his brilliance and take money for it, like it wasn't the most amazing thing to ever happen to him. 

Once again, it occurred to him that once all of this was over he'd be alone again; but it was too far into the future to not wave away for now. 

"As you wish, Doctor Watson. Sherlock, don't drive him to insanity, would you? Goodbye." 

"Go to hell!" Sherlock shouted and then resolutely cut the call, still frowning heavily.

John didn't want him to persist with his bad mood, so he tried to change the topic. "Sherlock, you were saying something about the man with the binoculars?" 

And just like that, the spark returned to Sherlock's eyes, and John smiled, thinking to himself: _that was easy, I could do this all my life._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one is up the next one soon to follow! Please give kudos or comment if you like the fic!  
> Thanks as always to Vanshika who edits these stories into comprehensible chapters!!


	6. Sherlock Holmes, a junkie?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft calls, again, and John and Sherlock make the first move into a blossoming friendship.

When Mycroft called again in the evening, John and Sherlock were at the window, keeping watch from behind the closed curtains. They took turns at the windowsill, observing the only man with the binoculars in all the crowd. 

Sherlock had explained to John how he thought it was very likely that the man was hired by Moriarty: he was the only one who'd profit from their -- Sherlock and John's-- actions; namely if the prophecy he'd made was coming to fruition. 

John was glad Sherlock had said that and not "check if you and I have fallen in love". Because then that sentence would be out there in the open, and freely available for John's torturous memory to store.

And then play it over and over at the most unfortunate moments. Like when John was awake at night and not able to sleep and wondering about how he would act as if he loved the detective.

As he said, unfair. 

Beside them, on the table, was a little diary in which John insisted they keep all the observations that Sherlock made, so he could remember: what the man below on the street looked like, what did he do during his shift, and so on

. They were tracking down their spy's routine to see if there was a shift, and another person came to fill in his place, or when he left, to follow him and confirm he was one of Moriarty's. 

"Follow? But didn't your brother specifically ask us to stay indoors?" John had asked, as ever the voice of reason, and Sherlock had huffed in a manner that made John sure he'd acted just like this when he was seven, complaining about Mycroft. 

"Mycroft cannot tell me what to do. Besides, his minions are useless. I asked him to track down the man who was following us. He had the audacity to text me that I should not _worry_ and that he was doing the _needful._ "

Sherlock grumbled some more, his foot tapping impatiently as he recalled the text message, " _'Do not lose sight of your goal'._ The fat arsehole. His only goal is to protect the bastard he and his government keeps leeching off of."

He'd only just finished his rant when John's phone went off again and he left his place at the window to retrieve it. Sherlock peered over his shoulder, then made a 'hmfph' sound and sat on the chair by the window. 

"Fine, if you don't want to know, I'll not keep the phone on speaker. No need to distress you more over your brother." John smiled coyly, watching the back of Sherlock's head, waiting for some reaction from those unruly, erratic curls. 

Sherlock said something grudgingly, but lowering his voice to a whisper. 

John pretended not to hear, "No speaker then." And picked up the call. 

"Put. It. On. Speaker." Sherlock practically bit out every word, but was sufficiently audible, so John did just that, laughing a little. 

"Hello Mycroft, now would you look at that, Sherlock wants to hear you."

He expected some wry, cutting remark from the older Holmes. Not what he replied with. 

"But I, Doctor Watson, wish to speak to _you_ ." Mycroft's tone was irritated and short tempered, and surprised John thoroughly. "I really did not think, Doctor Watson, that _you_ would succumb to ridiculous impulses and take actions-- without consulting me-- that may blow our cover. Please tell me, _why did you write a blog entry without so much as informing me?"_

"Oh fuck, I had completely forgotten." John rubbed his face, muttering _'Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid!'_ The chaos that he'd awoken to in the morning had completely put out of his mind the blog entry he'd made. Oh god, _what had he written in it?_

"Indeed." Thank the gods, Mycroft seemed a bit calmer, though just as irritated, "I had not placed a full time surveillance on you because I thought you wouldn't be as _stupid_ as this.

"At 4:25 pm today I got an alert from my men that _you_ had made a blog entry that was _steadily seeing a growth in interaction_ , as your name is now becoming publicly known. If you were to check your blog now there is a steady torrent of people commenting how _adorable_ you two have already become."

"' _I think he might be mad. He was certainly arrogant and really quite rude and he looks about 12 and he's clearly a bit public school_ ', how wonderful John." Sherlock's voice was disdainful though not unamused as he read out an excerpt from his phone. 

John was still for a moment. He had forgotten that Sherlock was listening too,and now the lanky git was reading snippets from his blog! "Give me that! How did you get to it so quickly?" John snatched at the phone in vain, blushing horribly.

Sherlock, using the height advantage, leapt out of the chair and kept it out of the smaller man's reach and continued reading, "' _and, yes, I definitely think he might be mad but he was also strangely likeable. He was charming. It really was all just a bit strange_.' thank you John, I didn't know you found me so 'charming'." Sherlock smirked. 

"Shut up for Christ's sake! I was really sleepy when I wrote that." John's neck and ears were red and he was furious at not being able to reach his phone. 

"Ah, finally, something about my _intellect--_ ' _Somehow he knew everything about me. He knew I'd served in Afghanistan and he knew I'd been invalided. He said my wound was psychosomatic so he didn't get everything right_ '-- I did John, your wound _is_ psych--"

"Both of you, stop talking!" Mycroft thundered, his patience wearing thin. Both John and Sherlock immediately stopped their bickering, "now that you have made this mistake, we must turn it to our advantage. John," there was a pause, "you will write a blog post every five days, about your life with Sherlock."

"Umm, okay. But what should I even write?" John wasn't sure if he could effortlessly make up a smooth tale of his and Sherlock's romance, when there was none. 

"Oh, my assistants will email you the content. You will write it in your own words," that sounded a lot like ' _dumb it down to your level_ ', "and post it. It will be an excellent way to tell your story to the public without having to expose you at all." Mycroft hummed, expressing his approval and satisfaction. 

"Ugh," Sherlock groaned, "is that all? If so, you can please disconnect."

"No, Sherlock, as it happens I do have more news," from Mycroft's tone it sounded like Sherlock was going to hate this very much indeed. "Lestrade is going to come later on for a drug's bust. Just to ensure that you're clean, you understand. We are going to have to handle you for a week."

"What? That really can't be true" John was looking at Sherlock incredulously, "this man, a junkie?" 

Sherlock's mouth tightened like he hadn't wanted John to know this, his jaw jutting out in a pretense of indifference. 

Mycroft was quick to reply,"Oh yes John. Didn't you know? Sherlock has returned very recently from Rehab , where he has been to multiple times, due to his addiction to drugs, primarily morphine and cocaine."

Mycroft was never one to sugarcoat things, and this too he had said without mercy. 

"It's not an addiction!" Sherlock growled, his nostrils flared, " I only use it for intellectual stimulation and I can stop _whenever I want."_ He looked into John's eyes directly, face obstinate like a child's. 

"Of course Sherlock." Mycroft said this in a very patronising tone, sure to tick the younger Holmes off, "but Lestrade will still be coming around this evening. Goodbye, Sherlock and Doctor Watson." 

And with a decisive click he was gone. 

Sherlock turned around and went to the desk, fuming. John walked up to him, standing beside him, arms folded across the chest, "That's okay Sherlock, I'll help you go cold turkey. We'll do it together." 

He had had experiences with de-addiction before, like he had for Harry, his sister. It suddenly struck him he hadn't told her about this whole fiasco and that she'd find out from the papers. He felt bad about it, but then the feeling subsided when he remembered that _he'd_ had to find out about her divorce from someone else too .

"I don't need your help," Sherlock said haughtily, not meeting John's eyes and instead scrolling on his phone screen. 

Suddenly his entire expression softened, and he looked up at John briefly before looking down at his phone screen again. 

In a very low, gentle voice he read out, "' _I really don't know anything about this whole greatest lovers of all time thing. But I think that we can be good friends, Sherlock and I, if he'll want to. I really think so._ '" 

Both of them looked anywhere but at each other, feeling a warm feeling like a gentle flame bloom in their chests. 

*******

On the first night together, Sherlock insisted that John should sleep on the bed because he didn't sleep as much, and would be busy finishing an experiment all night. And yet John was adamant that he sleep on the mattress, even if only for this night. He had to establish that this was how it was supposed to be. That it was part of an _act_. 

He didn't know why he'd thought the nightmares would go away. They didn't. 

They came with all their usual might, overwhelming and fast and dark and all consuming, and he woke up panting, hand already searching for a gun, then took a few deep breaths, and sobbed for all it was worth. He was glad Sherlock wasn't around to witness the spectacle. He couldn't sleep properly that night afterwards. 

The next morning, Sherlock looked up at him with some caution as John exited the bedroom, _their_ bedroom now, and asked in a quiet voice that John could pretend he hadn't heard if he didn't want to answer. "You have nightmares, about Afghanistan?"

So it hadn't gone as unnoticed as John had thought. He was about to not reply when he looked at Sherlock and remembered the detective's expression the previous day, eyes soft, mouth's edges lifting to form a small smile. 

" _I think that we can be good friends, Sherlock and I, if he'll want to."_

And so John said, "Yes." It was more than he would have done, but really, it was all he could do. 

Sherlock looked away with an understanding nod, and John was grateful to him for having dropped the topic. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter up, and don't worry, THE PRETEND RELATIONSHIP STARTS SSOOOOON


	7. 10 Things I hate (& love) about you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Boys spend a week in each others' company

Sherlock Holmes was a very complex man. He had many antiques and just as many redeeming qualities, though situations often turned out to be such that one forgot all his plus points in the face of the one atrocious thing he would do. 

They were currently researching and finding about Moriarty all they could, after Mycroft had only reluctantly given some information-- that too after Sherlock threatened to not cooperate and blow their cover. They were therefore in each others' company more than the 'lockdown' would have had them be. This led to John getting thoroughly acquainted with both- the atrocious actions and the redeeming qualities. 

For one thing, Sherlock did not  _ not _ speak for days on an end. Rather, in a turn of events that John found rather flattering, as the days passed by, the detective got the habit of  _ talking _ to John. And not just when John was present. There were other times when John had walked out after a relaxing shower and found Sherlock chattering away to him, surprised when John told him he'd just entered the room.

"Not my fault you weren't there." Was all the detective would say, with a small frown, but John couldn't help that small surge of pride.

Sherlock had also taken to  _ staring _ at John a lot-- John would look up from his laptop to find Sherlock keenly regarding him, which was apparently him "reading John's body language". It felt not uneasy, but rather more startling, to think that John could be doing anything that could interest Sherlock, and that too so often. 

Of course, John did not make the mistake of staring back into the detective's eyes. He had once before, foolishly, found himself staring into those blue-- no green, a bit of golden maybe? Those indescribable coloured-- eyes, and had found himself wondering what it would be like to look at them up close.

Close enough to see every single swirl of colour make up the whole Iris. To see the pupil dilate enough to almost fill it up, to--

Thankfully, he recovered in time, and vowed to never do it again. 

An extension of this habit was Sherlock's disastrous inability to comprehend 'personal space'. Disastrous, because it always showed up in the worst of positions, like when John found an article about Moriarty, and Sherlock showed up to read it himself. The detective would not bother letting John shift at all, but would simply read over John's shoulders, his chest touching the smaller man's back, his arm brushing John's forearm as he perused the website and clicked about. His breath, warm, steady, softly tingling on John's neck. 

Should it have made John as hot and bothered as he felt? Probably not. But then again, John had not snogged or gotten a leg up in quite some time, which really, he explained to himself, made up for everything without the slightest bit of doubt. Just a bit touch starved. 

God, he needed a distraction. 

There were other things Sherlock did that drove John  _ mad,  _ though not in the way the above mentioned things did. They did it in that bad way. 

Sherlock's experiments were plenty, and complicated, and not always necessarily the safest-- which was fine, at least until he blew something up or set something on fire--, but the thing that made it incorrigible was the  _ test subjects.  _

Sure, knowing that your flatmate might use human and animal remains in his experiments was terrifying. But what was even more terrifying, was to find out that he placed them in containers meant for  _ food,  _ so that you could open a jar for a pickle and find preserved human  _ fingers,  _ or open the fridge to find an  _ entire human head,  _ just casually sitting on a plate that you might have used to eat spaghetti last night. 

Boy did they have a row when John found the head. " _ No you're not keeping a fucking head in my fucking house!" "It's my house too, I pay half the rent!" "Are you fucking kidding me? No fucking way!" "Using expletives will not aid your case John!" _

In the end, it was decided that yes, Baker Street would house human remains, but only as long as everything--  _ 'i mean  _ **_everything_ ** _ , Sherlock'-- _ was labelled, and containers were only those which had been alloted for the task. 

" _ Fine _ ." Sherlock had sulkily agreed, and gone back to plucking his violin. 

His violin, yes, that was another thing. 

When Sherlock was sulky, he would pluck at the strings to make off-tune, shrill notes. Or when he was thinking.But when he was in a good mood, or at the brink of some marvellous deduction, he would play beautifully, and often John would settle in his chair with a cup of tea or a glass of wine, and enjoy listening to "Swan Lake" or Bach or Stravinsky, or whatever it was that he played, because it was all so  _ beautiful.  _

And more than that, though Sherlock never fully let himself  _ melt _ into the music, his movements would become fluid like water, his face relaxed and content in a way John seldom saw him. 

And then, there were the nights. 

Sherlock would never come to bed, insisting that he didn't need sleep, and that John could sleep on his bed for the time being. He stayed up all night, John thought, doing this experiment, or solving some case, just by reading about it from Lestrade's texts. 

For John, the nightmares came. He would wake up in the middle of the night, in cold sweat, shaking, disoriented. And then, like magic, music would float in from the living room, calm, tranquilizing notes from the violin that soothed him and helped him go back to sleep. 

He didn't know  _ how _ Sherlock knew just when to play the music, or how the notes helped him at all, but somehow, gradually, the nightmares became easier to handle, and safety sounded a lot like Bach's Piano Concerto No.21. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter up, and Chapter 8 to come soon!!  
> I'm really excited about what's to come next!


	8. I'll Pretend I'm Pretending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last night if their honeymoon period, the next morning, and the entry of a surprise guest .

Timely, as ever, on the fifth day of their 'one week lock-in', John and Sherlock received a call from Mycroft's office about the second blog post John had to make. This time however, it was not Mycroft, but one of his "minions", as Sherlock liked to say, who had called them. 

She had explained to John the points he was to write on, about how they were "getting to know each other" for these seven days, and how he had to say sweet things about Sherlock. 

"Not that you aren't already proficient at that. Your older post was very romantic." She teased him, and John felt himself go red. Thankfully, by this time Sherlock had excused himself from the "tedious deceiving tactic" so that John didn't have to handle the embarrassment a second time. 

"It's really not like that." John tried to laugh it off. 

"Oh the comments, if you read them, say quite the opposite." 

John hadn't read the comments and kept putting it off, perhaps for this very reason. 

He sighed. "Will I never hear the end of this? God this is _so_ embarrassing." 

The agent laughed on the other end, a pleasant, tinkling sound. John rather liked it. 

"Oh get used to it John, I'll be guiding you through all the posts. Get used to me." Was she _flirting_? John wasn't quite sure but he decided to take the chance. 

"Well, if you are going to be calling me so often, and _you_ know _my_ name, isn't it fair that I know yours?" John waited with a small smile, sliding his tongue over his lips. 

"No can do sweetie. But, you can call me what my spy name is. Mary Morstan, at your service." 

Mary. A nice name for what sounded like a nice girl. "That will do just fine, thanks Mary." John said with a small laugh. 

"Nice talking John, remember to write your blog. Bye!"

John had just kept down his phone when Sherlock materialised behind him. "Did the conversation last so long?" He inquired, his head tilted, looking straight into John's eyes. 

"Er, yeah." John looked away from him, remembering the banter and slight flirting he'd been doing. 

Then reminded himself he didn't have to feel guilty, he wasn't _actually_ in a relationship with Sherlock. 

"Did you write up the post? I want to read it."

"I- uh no. Just about to, actually. You want to read it? Why?" John looked up at Sherlock inquisitively. He hadn't thought Sherlock had any interest in this matter. 

"Well, if we have to maintain the ruse, I have to be updated with it as well. And your comments about me being 'charming' are rather interesting."

"Shut up you git." John said, smiling, and so Sherlock smiled back too, playfully dodging John's attempt to swat him. 

Together, with some healthy bickering, they wrote up the post and read through the comments. 

Sherlock sometimes made deductions about the people who'd left the comments, and was surprisingly venemous towards the inevitable Anti-LGBTQ ones. 

John hadn't known he would care so much. Somehow, it made a tender feeling bloom in his chest about the lanky twat, and he found himself joining in and making rubbish but scathing deductions about them too. 

Scrolling through them, he found one by Harry. _"What the hell John??? Jesus fucking christ I can't believe it!!!!"_

 _Classic Harry_ , John thought and remembered just how long it had been since they'd last talked besides empty 'How are you's and 'Fines'. 

He tried to call her twice, but she didn't pick up, and texted her to call him, worrying slightly. He hoped to god she wasn't drinking heavily with shady strangers in some dingy bar. The thought made him shudder and also feel slightly guilty. He felt that he should have been there for her, but then again, he had been there for her plenty of times, only for her to go back to her old ways and show everyone that the drinking was more important than everything, even Clara. 

Anxiety rising inside him, he left one last voicemail on her number. "Hey Harry. Sort of worried about you. Please call me. And er, take care. Bye." 

He cut the call and slightly massaged his temples, hoping she'd call soon. 

***

It was the night before their one week "honeymoon period" was going to end. 

Their last night in the safety of Baker Street, protected from the press and the media and having to pretend they were a couple. 

Maybe, that is why John could not sleep, and that's why he was staring at the ceiling, and that's why he crept out of bed. His foot touched the discarded sleeping bag that had laid there unused after the first night, Sherlock insisting he did not need sleep. 

Tonight, John decided he wanted to know just what Sherlock did all night. He expected to find the detective at the kitchen table that he'd hijacked for his experiments, eyes alert with that all-seeing cold gaze. 

Instead, when John walked out of the bedroom into the living room, he found Sherlock curled up on his chair, fast asleep. He was lying in what seemed _mostly_ a comfortable pose, but really, the chair was no place to sleep and suddenly, John felt very angry and concerned and a little hurt. 

_Angry_ that Sherlock had been lying to him about not needing sleep, _concerned_ that he wasn't getting proper rest, and _hurt_. Was the idea of sleeping next to John so bad that he had to lie and sleep uncomfortably in a fucking chair? 

John had half a mind to rouse him from his sleep and demand answers, but realised that Sherlock was in deep sleep and the bastard never got much rest anyway. 

That, and John couldn't stop staring at Sherlock's sleeping face, as that was when he actually noticed it. 

Sherlock looked years younger, his mouth slightly open and relaxed unlike the tightness with which he carried it when awake. 

His expression was calm, content-- a stark contrast from the chaotic frenzy that he was so often in. John liked the look a lot. Liked seeing all these different aspects of the man who seemed so ethereally untouchable and aloof most of the time. Not that John didn't like that smartass side of him that spewed deductions and clever insults faster than one could comprehend them. Maybe he liked all the different angles of Sherlock Holmes. 

Shaking his head to himself with a small smile, John went back to their room to fetch a blanket and drape it over the sleeping detective, tucking him in, and suddenly thought of all the romcoms he'd seen, with the lead doing _just that_ to their love interest. 

Then, he abruptly stopped himself. They weren't the characters of the romcom, they were the _actors_ starring in one. 

_Pretending_ , he reminded himself, _just pretending._

John walked about the flat for a while, looking at the experiments on the table, regretting when he saw something too alike the part of a human spleen. His eyes were constantly drawn to Sherlock's sleeping form, until he realised he was being a creep, and returned to their bedroom to try to sleep again. 

He vowed he'd get answers from the stupid prat when morning came. 

****

"No, answer me!" John demanded. 

A few minutes ago he had entered the living room to find a very-- unnaturally so-- _casual_ looking Sherlock reading the newspaper on the same chair he'd slept in last night, the blanket folded neatly on the arm. 

Nonchalantly, he had turned a page as John entered, and somehow that ticked him off incredibly. 

Yes, he hadn't expected Sherlock to be begging on his knees saying sorry-- no, a _bad_ , very bad image-- but he had at least expected some remark, some nervousness to indicate that a mistake _had_ in fact been made and acknowledged by the detective. 

And thus John had irritatedly asked and Sherlock had behaved even more ignorant and then John was shouting. 

"Whatever do I need to answer? I was simply resting in my chair. Not a crime, is it?" 

"For fuck sake Sherlock, you know what I mean. You _lied_ that you didn't want to sleep and were doing experiments. Why?" John really hoped the hurt hadn't been too evident in his voice. 

But apparently it had been, because Sherlock looked up in surprise at John, and then stuttered, "But I was telling the truth-- I was doing experiments the rest of the nights-- John, I--" Sherlock paused, gulped, then averted his eyes, "didn't want to you sleep on the floor and didn't think you would be comfortable sharing a bed with me." He finished quietly. 

"Oh." John stood there for a minute, unsure of what to say.

He had originally planned to let Sherlock sleep on the bed and he himself to return to the sleeping bag. And therefore, what he said next was equally unanticipated by both of them. 

"Right then, we'll both be sleeping on that bed from now onwards. And you'll be doing that every night whether or not you want to sleep." John surprised himself, truly. His voice was even, firm, like he was Captain John Watson again ordering his soldier. 

It had a visible effect on Sherlock. For a second he stood with his lips slightly parted, and then stood up straighter, clearing his throat, his voice constrained when he spoke, "Fine then. We will follow the new sleeping arrangements." 

He then turned abruptly away, and John shaking his head, went on with his daily morning routine.

***

At ten thirty, when John had just finished taking a bath and was about to continue his part of the research on Moriarty, and Sherlock still in his t-shirt and dressing-gown, Mrs Hudson came up to announce that another one of Mycroft's agents had arrived. 

"Agent? Yeah the one on duty came by a half an hour ago." 

"No dear. She's someone else." Mrs Hudson replied and, turning to the staircase, called the said Agent upstairs. 

Sherlock curiously abandoned his laptop-- for once it thankfully wasn't John's-- in the interest of trying to figure out just _who_ this other agent was. 

Mrs Hudson stepped back to let her in.

John had been in the process of making tea, but he rather forgot about it. The kettle was on put to boil without switching on the gas. 

The agent walked in with a smile and a mischievous glint in her eyes, raising an eyebrow in acknowledgment to John looking at her. "Hello boys." 

She was a fairly attractive woman with short blonde hair and a sleek tailored suit, with the kind of intelligence and spark in her eyes that felt very familiar to John, but he could not place _who_ it was like. 

Didn't really matter, John thought, and flashed his most winning smile. "Hey. Mycroft sent you?"

Beside him Sherlock had gotten up from his experiment table and was now eyeing the woman, _making his deductions_ , John supposed. 

"Yes John. We have talked before. Mary Morstan, remember?" 

_Oh yes_ , John did remember her then. Quite well in fact. This was fantastic news. 

Before he could say anything further though, Sherlock budged in, now eyeing her with some suspicion and, much to John's irritation, said somewhat bluntly, "Why are you here?" 

Mary simply smiled at Sherlock with not inconsiderable smugness, and said, "I am here to teach the two of you how to sit in each others' laps." 

  
  
  



	9. To Touch You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First lesson in Intimacy, First meeting with the media and their First night together.

There was a momentary silence in which the three stood for a while: Mary smug, John scandalised, and Sherlock, well, unable to process. 

Yes they had known that this was coming, it had to sooner or later, but they never thought it would come in such a fashion, and so directly and headfirst, that they couldn't skirt around it a bit, as was the British thing to do. 

John was the first to voice his shock, "Um, what? You're going to give us classes?" 

Since no one had actually invited her inside, Mary herself did so, and sauntered towards Sherlock's chair, causing both the detective and the doctor to flinch. 

"Yes, in a way. Come, sit here on the couch." She motioned to the couch and shifted Sherlock's chair to face it. 

John thought Sherlock would object at this invasion of his beloved chair, but surprisingly he said nothing. 

Mary folded her legs and lay her hands on them laced in a businesslike manner, and smiled, "Of course you know the need for this. There is going to be a lot of noise around you two, you will also be doing a few interviews. So there's going to be all kinds of 'body language experts' telling the crowd if your relationship is actually real and assessing every move you make." 

By this time John and Sherlock had seated themselves on the couch, a bit closer than perhaps intended, and Mary's head tilted a little as she analysed the pair in front of her. 

"Just trying to ascertain how much effort is needed." She clarified. 

John became more conscious of his pose and his movements, suddenly very stiff and upright, bothered by how much he could give away from it. Not that he had anything to hide.

Sherlock beside him squirmed a little with impatience and, though he would never admit it, was also somewhat uncomfortable. 

_ Nice for him to know what it feels like from the other end of the microscope, _ John thought with a smirk. 

"Well, there's some unconscious inclination towards each other that will be working for us," Mary wiggled her eyebrows suggestively at them, thoroughly enjoying her work. 

At this both John and Sherlock looked at each other instinctively, and then looked away just as quickly at being caught, as Mary continued. 

"But there are some more things to be kept in mind. Look, it's really hard to remember to always do certain things or do them on purpose-- you'll be exposed very easily. I suggest that you maintain some intimacy now-- y'know, the hand holding, sitting close to each other, cuddling, blah blah. All the gestures that a couple would do." 

John fancied she was looking at  _ him _ intently as she listed off the terms. Would Sherlock mind if he used the upstairs bedroom for a night? 

Beside him, Sherlock spoke up suddenly, and it broke John out of his musings. 

"Can you be more specific as to what kinds of gestures, list them out perhaps?" 

"List them out? All the usual things that you do, haven't you ever been in a relationship?" Mary meant it as a harmless query perhaps, but Sherlock looked distinctly uneasy, and an embarrassed blush spread over his cheeks as he looked down, avoiding John's gaze. 

It should have made John feel awkward or even sad, though he had to admit he had spent some time speculating  _ that _ question. 

Instead looking at the hurt on Sherlock's face sent a surge of hot anger to John's brain, and he said in a harsh tone, "Isn't this supposed to be your  _ job _ ?" 

All three of them were surprised at this. Mary was taken aback by the remark, John was unsure  _ why _ he'd been so defensive. Sherlock had looked up from his embarrassed moping, and was staring at John with an undecipherable expression, his lips slightly parted. 

Strangely enough, John wasn't sorry about his outburst. And that was something he didn't want to inspect too closely. 

"Er, um, sure, I'll make up a list of things you can practice and send it to you. John," she cleared her throat awkwardly, "has my number." 

"That's good." Sherlock's hands were getting fidgety, and Mary looked at them, her expression softening and then said gently, "Hey there's no need to worry. It will be quite natural. Look--You know what, let's do one right now. John, scoot closer to him." 

John looked at her a bit disbelievingly, and she gave him an encouraging raise of her eyebrows. With considerable apprehension, John closed the few inches between them, his thigh touching Sherlock's.  _ It's quite warm _ , he thought distractedly. 

"Great. Now sort of mould into each other. Put your arm around him and John you make yourself a bit more comfortable-- yeah like that." 

John did mechanically what he was told to do, his heart beating at a not-so-good rate, and his head rested on Sherlock's shoulders, and it felt unnatural to not feel the soft feminine torso he was so used to; and instead a hard, broad chest. He wasn't sure how to place his head onto it. 

_ This is going to be a disaster _ , he thought worriedly, about how he wouldn't actually be able to look convincing enough-- 

From amidst his worrying, John looked up at Sherlock who'd very awkwardly swung his arm around John like he was a gangly teenager making his move in the darkness of the theatre, with apprehension and fear in his eyes.

It was obviously not a usual expression that one saw on his face-- he was almost never out of his depth--, but what struck John the most was how young and raw he looked as he gulped nervously and tried to adjust where he should rest his hand.

It reminded John of the sleeping Sherlock he'd seen just the previous night, limbs sprawled all over the chair. 

Tenderness bloomed in John's heart like an unlikely flower, and without much thought he slid his arm around Sherlock's waist and settled himself cosily against his chest. 

Sherlock froze at first, but then settled in too, with some semblance of genuinity. It wasn't very smooth for sure, but Mary smiled widely at them. "Absolutely perfect. Well, almost. You just need some practice." 

She shuffled her feet as one who is about to make an exit, signalling that their first 'class' had come to an end. 

"So you need to practice these gestures at every chance you get in the house. Hug each other when you feel like it, dance maybe-- oh and I hope you're sleeping on one bed--" she looked at the bedroom door as if she could decipher that from a perfunctory glance.

"And after a few days, once you become accustomed to the intimacy, we're going to have kissing lessons!" She paused and looked at the two men to see the effect of her statement. She was not disappointed. 

Both of them, who'd still been cuddling, broke away from each other as if on fire, moving to the opposite ends of the couch, and determinedly avoiding even so much as  _ looking _ in the others' direction. 

_ Kissing, right _ , John thought groaning internally. He'd almost,  _ blessedly _ forgotten about the kissing. Oh god it was going to be hell. He couldn't even look at the man's lips without drooling for Christ's sake. 

Mary winked at them and prepared to leave when she stopped in her tracks, remembering something more. As if she could drop a bomb bigger than  _ that _ one. 

"Oh, and today evening at six there'll be a car coming to get you for your first public appearance!" 

Looking at the alarmed and startled looks on the two men's faces she laughed, "Don't worry, it's just to photograph you as you get into the car. You'll be driven around for a while and then come back here. Remember to hold hands!"

And with that she made her exit, with a grin flashed at them and a wink at John. 

With Mary gone there was no third person to interact with to avoid interacting with each other, but they made an attempt in earnest, standing up suddenly-- both at the same time-- and pretending to dash off to do something. 

But for the love of God nothing came to mind. 

  
John felt like he would  _ perish  _ with whatever he was feeling and that he had to extract himself from this situation, so he made some poor excuse as he went down the steps behind Mary, and caught her at the base of the staircase. 

He forgot for a moment what he wanted to say, not that he  _ had _ anything in mind, and stood there stupidly before blurting out, "Thanks Mary for all your help."

She smiled at John with that same mischievous glint and said "My pleasure. Now best get on back upstairs or your boyfriend will start thinking there's something going on here." 

Once again John reflexively defended himself, "We're not actually together, y'know." 

Mary looked at him without saying anything for a long moment. Then she smiled softly and said, "Good. That means you're still up for grabs." 

And without giving John a chance to answer turned away and exited Baker Street. 

He grinned at the closed door with excitement,  _ Finally, he'd scored.  _

****

The rest of the day was spent in trying to avoid each other and most certainly  _ not _ doing what Mary had told them to do. 

When six pm came around they were both dressed, Sherlock in his regular posh suit who's shirt fit him perfectly; and his arse, John had not failed to notice, was not hidden by the tight fitting trousers. 

Damn that suit. 

He himself was wearing what he thought was one of his nicer jumpers, though Sherlock had shown some signs of distaste when he first saw it. Well, the bastard could go to Dolce-and-Gabbana Hell for all John cared. 

Without having had much prior communication, it was laudable how they were standing in front of the door leading to the outside world together, of their own volition. 

John was about to open the door but paused, and turned to look at Sherlock, giving him an inquiring look.  _ Was everything ok? Should I open the door? _

Sherlock looked a bit uncomfortable, so John squeezed his arm lightly. 

"Don't worry. Just take a deep breath, and go out and be Sherlock Holmes." 

Not the best words of encouragement one could give, but Sherlock nodded, looking slightly more relaxed. John smiled at him, they nodded at each other, and then John opened the door. 

Someone, probably Mycroft, had tipped the media off about their appearance. Because, the moment that they stepped out, there was a swarm of people, all falling over each other to come nearer to the pair. They surrounded John and Sherlock in under a minute.

Needless to say it was very overwhelming, and it was not just because Mary had told them, did they hold hands. It was good to be able to tightly hold someone's hand, keeping them grounded and together. 

Cameras went off at a wild rate as they pushed their way through the crowd to a car parked not a metre away from them. People shouted their names, shouted questions to grab their attention. Someone shouted homophobic slurs from behind them, but there was no time to react to any of it. 

"Are you two together now?" One reporter shoved a mic into John's face. 

"Hey does he top or do you?" Another shouted and that earned a grin from John, though he obviously didn't reply. Man, the things they said just to get them to turn around. 

After a too long ten minutes they were finally able to reach the car, out of which a smartly dressed-- Mycroft's man, then-- driver stepped out and opened the door for them. 

The way they were walking John would have gone inside first, but he was feeling rather protective of Sherlock, and so stepped aside to let the detective in first. 

Sherlock looked like he was about to argue, but decided it was for the better that they got inside quickly. He shot a look at John and slid in smoothly. John himself got in next to Sherlock, and the driver firmly closed the door. 

And all at once the noise was blocked out, muted by the sound proof glass, and John realised he had a slight headache from all the chaos. He turned to Sherlock with the  _ 'You alright _ ?' look. 

The detective was looking a little pale, well paler than usual, but he nodded at John. 

"Any specific destination, sir?" The driver suddenly spoke from the front.

"Er, no. Just bring us back here mate, thanks." John said, settling into his seat. 

Just then the phone in Sherlock's coat pinged loudly and he immediately took it out and checked it. 

The colour returned to his face and his eyes looked at John excitedly "Change of plan, take us to Scotland Yard please!" 

John looked at the strangely illuminated face of Sherlock Holmes in his mobile's light, eyes shining, lips slightly parted, his hair in erratic curls already, staring at John  _ like that _ . 

And John thought, for one wild, careless moment. 

_ "I love you."  _

It wasn't a thought really, it was the passing of an electron from one neuron to another with the synapse just connected. And he pushed it away as fast as he could, not even allowing it to take the shape of words. 

John looked away hastily, forcing the thought out of his mind, and pretended to look out of the window.

His heart was beating wildly at the admission he'd just been about to make, even if only to himself. No,  _ no _ . He wasn't gay, wasn't like that, that had always been Harry. The wild child. He'd been a perfect model offspring. Always doing what was right, and what was expected. 

Sighing, with his chest feeling strangely hollow, he tried to distract himself, and not face Sherlock lest he picked up on something. But inevitably, every few seconds he caught himself looking at the reflection of the detective's face in the window. 

*****

It was their first night sharing a bed, and both parties were equally nervous about it. They were both fully covered in their nightclothes, neither daring to show any skin, and they shuffled into bed cautiously, anxious to not intrude into each others' personal space. 

"Er, John, should I switch off the lights?" Sherlock asked tentatively, and John could have laughed at the whole thing if the first reply that came to him wasn't  _ 'Only if you want to _ .'

"Yeah, sure." 

John was surprised they hadn't asked each other what side of the bed they preferred. 

He  _ had _ slept in close proximity with so many men in the army-- they were practically on top of each other. This really shouldn't have made him feel butterflies in his stomach. 

Moonlight filtered inside softly, and both of them slept with their backs to one another, shifting every some time to release some of the nervous energy pent up within them. 

Then, unable to hold it in any longer, they simultaneously turned around to face each other, and froze when they found the other staring into their eyes.

There was silence for a moment, and then John chuckled softly, and a small smile spread over Sherlock's features. 

He looked-- beautiful, ethereal, otherworldly in the soft moonlight, his eyes seemed like transparent orbs, pupils heavily dilated in the darkness. 

Something that Sherlock had said came back to John, and he whispered to the detective in a low, gentle voice, "I don't mind this, us, sleeping like this." He tilted his head to a side to indicate Sherlock's words that morning. "What you'd said earlier." 

Sherlock hummed, seeming more comfortable, and then, once again in synchronicity, they shifted to sleep on their backs, much more relaxed, and sleep seemed much easier. 

John checked his phone one last time as he had done many times during the day. 

Still no reply from Harry. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaa another chapter, hope you guys are liking it, and please leave kudos or comments if you do like it!


	10. Who You Really Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of angst and quarrels, and solving a case.

It was just nine in the morning when John woke up, sunlight nastily falling right on his sleepy eyelids. He opened his eyes, slightly disoriented, and froze. 

Sherlock. 

He'd gone to sleep on the  _ same _ bed as Sherlock last night. He had wondered at night whether they would wake up all entangled and in each other's arms the following morning, like people in movies always did. 

He didn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved if it wasn't the case. 

He looked at his sleeping companion. Sherlock  _ had _ sprawled a bit, but they'd mostly kept to their sides, nothing scandalous. 

And if he did wake up with a slightly off mood that morning, though nothing that a good shower couldn't improve, it had  _ nothing _ to do with how untangled he'd been in the arms of Sherlock Holmes that morning. 

*****

John was humming to himself now, in a much better mood, two hours later, after a good warm bath. 

He was making coffee and toast for them; though Sherlock had denied the toast-- John would make him eat it, not to worry-- when a hesitant "Er, John." Came from the detective. 

"Yes?" John turned around with a small smile of curiosity, two pieces of bread yet to be put in the toaster in his hands. 

"Mary sent the email." Sherlock wasn't looking too pleased, perhaps from his embarrassment of it the previous day. 

John suddenly noticed that Sherlock had taken his--  _ John's-- _ laptop instead of his own, and was comfortably sitting at a very cluttered desk in the living room. 

He also remembered what had passed between him and Mary the day before, and wondered if something like that had been in the email too. He flushed at the thought of it and hurriedly snatched the laptop from Sherlock, hoping he hadn't read it. He took the laptop to his chair and sat down to read the email. 

_ Three Continents Watson, why are you so embarrassed about this woman? And why so eager to hide it from Sherlock?  _ These thoughts weren't very welcome to him because he would have very much liked to avoid them. And that he did, reading the email instead. 

_ Dear Johnny Boy, _

_ Here's a list for you and your boyfriend to practice from. Be sure to do all of them! Enjoy these next two days, will see you on Friday.  _

_ M.M  _

_ P.s. Looking forward to seeing you on Friday ;)  _

Well, that wasn't too bad really. The 'looking forward to seeing you' and the winky face did bring a smile to his face, but it faltered as he went through the list she'd attached to the email. 

_ The list: _

  * _Holding Hands_


  * Forehead kiss


  * Cuddling on couch or bed


  * Hugging


  * Hugging from behind


  * Sitting on each others laps


  * Giving their bum a "friendly pat"


  * Dancing


  * Massages


  * Tickling



It wasn't anything unusual, nothing to make him or Sherlock uncomfortable. But it made his heart beat a little faster at the thought of this kind of intimacy with Sherlock. He wasn't sure he would be able to make it out of this alive. 

It was the opportunity to indulge in all the little things he had wanted to do but had to restrain himself. A dangerous,  _ dangerous _ game. 

In front of him Sherlock impatiently looked at him with a "Well?" expression. He might have read the email but he hadn't read the list. 

And like all things unfair, this was another time he chose to get up and bend over across John to look at the screen.  _ Damn him _ . 

John didn't dare look at him or even move, for the fear that he would somehow know just how wildly John's heart thrummed against his rib cage, feared that he would hear it's nervous thundering drumming. 

He could sense Sherlock going through the list and feeling similarly uncomfortable. The detective's torso went stiff as he went through it, and then retreated immediately, with enough rapidity and fumbling that his entire arm, from the bicep to the fingers brushed against John's shoulders as they drew back. 

_ Good God _ , John thought miserably, _ if anything is to end me, my embarrassment will. _

Sherlock cleared his throat behind John, and came around to the front "I assume we will be completing the tasks given by Ms Morstan?" He asked at last, having seemed to recover from his embarrassment, and sat down on his chair. 

"Yup." John agreed, Because there really was no cause for him to disagree, and they had signed up for it, for  _ this _ , since the beginning. 

And so they sat half an hour later, holding hands over the table while having breakfast in the most awkward manner that the world had ever seen, beaten only by two shy teenagers holding hands in a classroom during their first ever romance. 

Neither had much appetite, and it was a blessing when Sherlock's phone buzzed with a text from Lestrade. 

The wife of the man who'd been murdered, Henry Tilney, examined by them last night, had been discovered to have been at a friend's place for a short while and had returned in the early morning after receiving the news of her husband's death. 

Mrs. Tilney was up for questioning now, it seemed. 

Gladly, they immediately drew back their hands, which were a little clammy, and muttered some excuses to each other and walked to their respective bedrooms; each breathing comfortably for the first time in quite a few minutes. 

And holding hands was only the beginning. John remembered, having looked out from the corner of his eye, how their hands looked together: Sherlock's much larger hand encompassing entirely his own smaller one, Sherlock's long, musicians' fingers brushing over John's short, grubby ones. 

It felt nice, to be honest, to hold his warm hand after the incessant quick pace of his heartbeat had slowed down a little. 

He heard Sherlock shuffling downstairs, remembered what he was supposed to be doing, and quickly picked up his mobile and stuffed it in his jeans pocket. 

In a few minutes, they were back in the outside world, with a lot less "fans"  _ thank god _ , and had hailed a cab and left for Scotland Yard. 

*****

Mrs Tilney was a small woman with a kind face and a very flowery assemble. She bore some resemblance to Mrs Hudson, John thought, in the way she looked and in a fixed resolution that seemed to rest in her fading eyes, which were red with crying. Her entire face had fallen, and while perfectly dressed, she looked very haggard. 

They walked into the interrogation room with Lesteade, and Sherlock immediately moved to the table, bracing himself on his palms, in a defensive position already. Mrs Tilney drew back a little from it, and John shot Sherlock a look. 

This wasn't how old ladies were to be treated. Especially after she'd received the news of her husband dying not too long ago. 

"Mrs Tilney. You'd gone to stay at your friends house. Where exactly is it?" Sherlock began, without the slightest preamble or greeting or consolation of any sort. 

Mrs Tilney looked intimidated by it and stammered, "Uh in, Woolston near Southampton. The weather there is ever so much nicer and--" 

"What do you think about your husband's death?" Another shot fired with as much ruthlessness. 

"I-- I think. Think that--" her eyes welled up and her hands shook a little. "I don't know. I don't--" 

"Did you know of any threat to his life?" John could sense impatience in Sherlock's voice, and John put a warning hand on his shoulder. Beyond freezing for a second, Sherlock paid it no heed. 

"Threat? I - don't know really-  _ oh my dear Henry _ !" She put her face in her hands and cried a little, and John moved forward to comfort her. Poor lady--

"Come on, don't be slow!" Sherlock beat John to it, and placed his hands on her shoulders, forcing her to face him. "He must have mentioned something. Think!" His voice was harsh and loud and the poor lady started. 

"Uh-- I-- yes, he did say something about some tension in the office regarding the latest project. That there was some evidence of fraud." All this she said quickly and fearfully, and John wanted to punch Sherlock. 

"Who? What Project?" He pressed even further. 

"Horton! There was something about Horton." The woman was nearly in hysterics. 

"I- I don't know. I don't know. Please-"

He looked into the detective's eyes. Surely there must be some guilt about how he'd treated her. But there was only the cold calculation he'd so often admired. That, and the cruelty. John could look at him no further. 

He stormed out of the interrogation room, banging the door, thoroughly upset. 

Therefore, John did not see Sherlock hold the old lady by the shoulders and murmur, "It's okay, I believe you, I just had to do that so you'd tell me everything quickly." 

John also did not see the fallen look on Sherlock's face when he discovered John had stormed off. 

******

John couldn't believe it. 

Couldn't believe that the face he'd seen in the moonlight a few hours ago, so young and soft and vulnerable, the eyes that had burnt with embarrassment and grown large in the nervousness of having to hold John's hand, could be the same cold, cruel eyes. The ones that held no compassion, no humanity. 

As he was walking in his flurry of thoughts he almost ran into someone. He looked up to find a detective. She was dark skinned and bushy haired, with intelligent eyes and a slight scowl. 

He'd seen her giving him a look of disapproval the other day when he'd first gone on a case with Sherlock.  _ Donovan _ , he vaguely remembered her name. 

"You're with  _ him _ aren't you?" She said the 'him' very pointedly to clear any doubt as to who that might be, but John did not like the way she spat it out, angry with Sherlock as he was. 

"Uh yeah." He said shortly. He wasn't in a mood to interact with her and moved forward to brush past her. 

Donovan stopped him by obstructing with her shoulder. "Look I don't know who you are. Certainly not his friend, he hasn't got any, and most certainly not a boyfriend like the media says. But stay away from him. You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it, like a  _ freak _ ." 

John was about to interrupt her, he wasn't going to stand anyone calling Sherlock 'freak', but she put up a hand and continued. 

"The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there." 

And before he had the chance to counterquestion, she looked at someone behind him, muttered something like 'freak' and walked away quickly.

Intrigued, John looked behind to see Sherlock walking towards him. A moment later he walked up to John, with a concerned look on his face. "John?" He asked tentatively. 

This face,  _ his _ face, was so different from the one he saw inside. Which part of it was acting? Which was real? The cruel or the considerate side? John didn't know. 

"What you did back there wasn't right." John burst out immediately. And yes, maybe it ticked him off more because she'd looked like Mrs Hudson, and surely Sherlock must have seen that--

"I just did it so she'd answer quicker." Sherlock replied quietly. 

" _ Quicker _ ? Sherlock, her husband just  _ died _ . I can't-- do you even care about her at all?" 

It was a question he dreaded to know the answer of.  _ Do you care about her at all? About anyone? About... _ me _? _

Sherlock's face hardened, and he said in a carefully neutral voice. "Will caring about her help me save her?" John looked at him and said nothing. "Then I'll continue not to make that mistake." 

John could not help it. The things Donovan had said, though he knew were untrue-- but then, how much did he really know about this man?-- had riled him up and now this. This open admission of indifference.

"You- you machine--'' John said it in a low, rasping voice, for no one but Sherlock to hear. 

The effect on Sherlock was greater than he'd thought. Something broke inside the detective, something inside him was injured, and his eyes were wide with shock for a moment before it was all gone. His face back to the usual insolence and emotionlessness. 

He took a step back, hesitated and then turned around, walking towards the common entrance. 

John saw him go outside and hail a cab that always appeared magically with a single beckoning, and leave. 

John himself went out from there, and turned left to a little alleyway just beside the building. With a sigh, he leaned against the wall next to a door that seemed relatively clean, and shuffled his feet, thinking. He wasn't a smoker, but a cigarette in hand would have really been appropriate: for both his situation and the location he was in. 

All that happened back in there had struck him square in the head with a simple, painful fact: he'd only known Sherlock a few days. They were supposed to be acting. All the hand holding and everything they'd do next would be acting. 

But in the magic of violin serenades, soft moonlight, guns, and adrenaline, he'd forgotten that he was supposed to be only acting. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahaha really excited, for what's to come next hope you're too!


	11. There To Save Every Tom, Dick, and Harry(if that's what John wants)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade tried to defend Sherlock, John decided to talk to Sherlock, and everything goes awry when John gets a phone call.

"He does care, y'know." 

The voice startled John, as he turned swiftly, and saw the door beside which he'd been standing, opened. Detective Inspector Lestrade emerged from behind it and raised a hand in greeting. 

"Hi." John said, more curtly than he'd meant to, but he didn't want to hear the defense for Sherlock Lestrade had brought. 

Ever since the news had also been confirmed by the newspapers, Greg was a bit weird around them, perhaps not knowing how properly to congratulate them. Or maybe unsure if they were really together. 

Last night had been the first they'd actually met after the whole "greatest lovers" fiasco, and he'd awkwardly congratulated them and Sherlock had pointedly ignored it, and ever since then, DI wasn't sure what they really were. 

Either way, John shifted a little, to make room for the man. He gave a small disbelieving laugh. "Yeah right. He cares." 

He didn't mean to contradict the DI, but from what he'd seen, and what the consulting detective had himself told him, Sherlock  _ didn't _ care.

The DI was taken aback by the sarcastic remark, but he ignored it and continued,"I know it doesn't seem like it." He said with a tired sigh, "but he does. He does all of this for free, and I know he says it's for his intellectual exercise or some bullshit, but I've seen him. Once y'know, we'd closed a cold case, not because it was unsolvable, but because we didn't have enough taskforce at the time. The old lady, mother of the guy who'd died was very upset and begged us.The case was hardly a 5, but Sherlock…..he went all out and caught the killer and even brought in sufficient evidence for him to be convicted." 

John thought about how he'd already heard about the 'doesn't get paid' angle in a very different way, though there was nothing to say which one was the right one.  _ Because he gets off on it _ , Donovan had said. 

Lestrade stopped for a second, and then looked into John's eyes, saying earnestly, "He's a great man John; and I think, one day, if we're very,  _ very _ lucky, he might just be a good one." 

_ Don't give up on him,  _ his eyes seemed to say. 

John took in a deep breath. Lestrade did know Sherlock longer than he did. Perhaps he was right. But John couldn't think about the cruel look in Sherlock's eye without flinching.

But he did feel lighter, better, and realised he  _ wanted _ what Lestrade said to be true. Then, there was nothing to be done other than to believe. 

He sighed, murmured his acquiescence to the DI. But he still wanted to talk to Sherlock about it. 

Lestrade looked at him very earnestly, and patted John's shoulder. "Take care of him, yeah?" 

This time John smiled, and nodded, then drew away from the wall, deciding it was time to go home. To Baker Street. 

They exchanged goodbyes and Lestrade said he'd be happy to meet up with John for a pint, and John agreed readily-- amidst all the madness and the Holmes brothers, this bloke seemed normal, which was amazing to John. 

He then proceeded to hail a cab, which came much later to him than it did to Sherlock. It was just in time though, for a lady was walking by him and had suddenly recognised John, and was already taking a picture and making loud excited noises as she approached him. John quickly sat in the cab and made his getaway. He was a celebrity now, he supposed, and chuckled to himself dryly.  _ Who would've thought? _

Midway through the cab ride, his phone had started buzzing in his pocket.  _ Must be Sherlock _ , he thought smugly,  _ perhaps apologising to me.  _

He decided he'd use the cab time for some thinking and talk to him directly at the flat. He therefore ignored his mobile for the rest of the drive and, resting his head against the headrest, closed his eyes. 

Sometime later he was at Baker Street, paying the cabbie, and nearly swatting a few cameramen away, hurriedly going inside. He jogged up the stairs, in a better mood than before, and shouted, "Yeah I got your call. But don't you prefer to text?" 

He came face to face, upstairs, with a pleasantly surprised yet confused Sherlock. The detective had been plucking at his violin, no doubt sadly, and turned to him with scrunched up eyebrows. "I did not call you." He still was a little tentative, not having gauged John's mood exactly, though happy for the much better spirits he seemed in. 

"Oh?" John was equally confused, and took out his phone to check who'd actually called. 

_ 1 Missed Call: Harry _

_ 1 Voice Message: Harry _

Harry? With some joy John put on the voice message. He was glad to hear from her at last. 

" _ Uh, Jo--hn? John- _ " Harry sounded drunk, very  _ very _ drunk, slurring on all her words and speaking indistinctly. 

" _ I'm--s'nothing really, but I don't feel so good. Please come here quickly. John, I don't-- no Jared don't touch me s'not cool"  _ here she slurred some more, and there was a noise of some pub music and chatter. " _ John!" _ Harry's voice, panicking, confused. There was a strange, unidentifiable piece of music playing very loudly, and then the recording abruptly ended. 

John stood there, listening in horror. All his worst fears had come true. She was drunk, somewhere, in probable danger with strangers who could do  _ anything _ to her-- no he couldn't even think about it. 

His wide, horror-stricken eyes went to Sherlock, who had put down his violin and had come a lot closer to John than he'd realised. He seemed to be thinking really hard. 

"Sherlock- I-I-  _ shit _ ! What will I do,  _ Harry _ ." John was a very strong man, he'd seen a lot in the war; but  _ this _ , it made him terrified, and his voice cracked when he said his sister's name.  _ God _ , he prayed fervently,  _ please don't let anything happen to her. And to think that ten minutes had already passed since this voicemail came… .  _

John's agony brought Sherlock back to reality, and his eyes, that snapped back onto John's face, were a strange mixture of intelligence and alacrity, and pain and affection."I think I may have deduced where she may be. What bar, I mean. It may be too late for us to go there, but it will be a starting point." 

"Oh," there were a lot of questions John wanted to ask, but all of them were pushed aside for later. He didn't doubt Sherlock's abilities at all, so, gaining composure, he nodded. 

"I'll be back in a moment." He went upstairs to retrieve his gun and tuck it into the back of his jeans. He had a feeling he would need it soon. 

In less than five minutes they were out on the streets, and once again Sherlock's miraculous ability to hail cabs instantly was useful. They got in hurriedly, and Sherlock told the driver to go to 'Emerald City'. 

The driver turned around to look at them, raising an eyebrow. "Are you sure mate?"

"Yes." Sherlock bit out impatiently, feeling the urgency as much as John did. They drove rapidly on Sherlock's orders, and John nervously tapped on his thigh, his thoughts whizzing rapidly from one possibility to the next-- anxious, angry, concerned. He was afraid for his sister. Granted, they didn't see eye to eye on many things, but she was still his sister and he still loved her, and she was possibly in grave danger. 

From beside him, Sherlock gently took his hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. 

Then, as he started withdrawing his hand, John did what he would've never done in a normal situation: He held on to it tightly, grasping the detective's hand in both of his, shaking his head slightly, and not meeting the other man's eye. 

Sherlock immediately understood and let his hand remain where it was. He knew what was bothering John: he was a very strong man, able to survive in high pressure situations easily. But he needed to be able to  _ do _ something. He needed to be able to act to improve the situation. Here, he was utterly helpless, not knowing where Harry was, and feeling every second slip away from him without progress. 

Soon, they reached the pub, a small, poorly maintained place, with a neon sign flashing brightly at three pm in the afternoon. And from what John could tell, the place was not empty, there were quite a bit of customers in there. An odd thing for an afternoon on a weekday. 

Sherlock threw the fare carelessly towards the cabbie and both of them dashed in, immediately trying to look for Harry. 

The place seemed full of desolate, depressed people, or extremely drunk patrons, and was dirtier than was dismissible. 

"A place for alcoholics, the unemployed, and the drug addicts." Sherlock gave a brief and succinct description to John, before stopping abruptly, realising that Harry had too chosen to come here. His 'description', therefore, might not be very welcome to John. 

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Sherlock faced away from John and continued to look. He only had a vague description to go on, and soon gave up, instead going to who he deduced was the person in charge. There was no one other than a placid faced bartender mixing a drink who seemed to be of authority. 

Both the men walked up to the counter, John bringing up a picture on his mobile, and waving a note for incentive. "Seen her mate? Should have been here a few minutes ago." John's tone was authoritative and yet not degrading-- he was in his element now. 

The bartender disinterestedly looked at the picture-- a mere cursory glance-- and shook his head. 

"Sure?" Sherlock produced a Ten Pound note, and instantly the man's interest piqued. He studied the picture carefully, and recognition sparked in his eyes. 

"Er, yes, only five minutes ago--" John's face hardened into silent fury-- "she was here with some other people. All of them were very drunk. They all went out into a van outside, I think." He shrugged, having given all the information he could be bothered to recollect. 

"Right. Ta mate." John turned briskly from the bartender and walked towards the exit purposefully, and then stopped in his tracks. He realised suddenly that he had no idea where to go next. 

Sherlock hadn't any either, but he did know a method of getting a fair idea about where Harry and her abductors were.  _ Mycroft _ . 

He took John outside and dialed Mycroft's number, putting him on speaker. While there were a few people inside, there was hardly anyone here in the afternoon, and they needed to be quick. 

Mycroft picked up on the second ring. "Mycroft." Sherlock's tone had an urgency that prevented his brother from making any satirical remark he might have wished to. "About five minutes ago, a van left a bar 'Emerald City', with Harriet Watson in it. I trust you have her file?" 

"Yes. Of course" Mycroft replied immediately, with a clipped tone. John had barely time to register his surprise and then resignation at this breach of privacy.

"Then pull up your CCTV footage and find out where that van is."

"Sherlock, are you sure--" 

With a groan, Sherlock put the phone to his ear and then shouted, "Yes Mycroft, I am sure! Stop being empty headed and make use of all those useless people and equipment you have lying around."

It seemed that Mycroft got the message from Sherlock's frustrated words quickly, as he transferred his calls to his minions and, for the next two minutes, Sherlock communicated with one of Mycroft's minions, a particularly frustrating one it seemed, and repeated the details and gave whatever other information he could. The man on the other end seemed to frustrate him to the point of disconnecting the phone call, and he had come very close to just doing that. But a quick glance at John's anxious face had banished that thought. 

These moments for John had been  _ agony _ as he stood there doing nothing, his anger building up, and his only comfort the feeling of metal against skin as he rested a hand on the gun he had. 

"Found them." Sherlock said to John at last, sounding a bit breathless from the constant pacing around he'd been doing while he had talked on the phone. 

Guilt prickled down John's skin as he remembered what he'd said so thoughtlessly to this very man not too long ago.  _ "You machine."  _ And then the same man had gone on to hold John's hand and shout at his own brother, and do everything in his power to find Harry. John was both ashamed and grateful. 

_ Now's not the time _ , he reminded himself, stopping in his mental ramblings.

Both of them set off, the past pushed aside for the moment. They were, unsurprisingly, at their best in the face of danger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi I hope you like the chapter!!!!


	12. When the past catches up.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rescuing of Harry Watson, and the unveiling of her brother's. The past that they'd always kept in silence, finally catches up.

The cab dropped them off  at a place a hundred metres from where Harry and her abductors would be arriving in a minute, Sutherland Ave. 

Once they'd gotten out of the cab, John insisted they go another few metres ahead at the beginning of Delaware Road, which, compared to the one they were on, had almost no traffic. All the cars turned right at the junction before it, towards a main road. 

"But they will not go straight, I'm almost certain they will take the right, according to their route until now." Sherlock cautioned John, hesitating. John was furious and was desperate to do something. He didn't want to anger John further by pointing out this fault; but Harry's safety came first. 

"Don't worry," John replied with a calm in his voice that only made the fury in his eyes seem more fierce. "We'll get them before that." 

He took out his gun and cocked it, ready to shoot at a moment's notice. 

A crack shot Sherlock knew him to be and so was less apprehensive than before, having full faith in the army doctor's strategy. 

In a minute he deduced to himself that it was indeed a good one. 

From their vantage point they now had a clear view of the turning at which the van could appear any moment, giving John the one mere second he needed to aim. 

John would shoot at the tyres when they would reach the turning. The car would swerve straight ahead onto Sutherland Ave, and since there was almost no traffic, neither an outsider nor Harry inside the van could be gravely injured. 

_ The reasoning of an army doctor, who both takes and saves lives, _ Sherlock thought with pride as he looked on at John. 

_ Dependable _ ,  _ strong _ ,  _ kind _ ,  _ brave, John.  _

_ Perfect John.  _

Sherlock was a little too engrossed in his appreciation of John Watson to notice the exact moment when the van came into view-- not that he would admit this to anyone ever. 

The van was a dull dark grey, thoroughly vandalised and very ill taken care off-- a headlight was missing and the bumper was askew. The windows were tinted black, but there was a crack in the glass of the one in the rear.

John took a deep breath, and then fired, just as it was nearing the intersection, making sure no cars were dangerously close. 

Two shots at the front and back tyres of the left side, clean and precise, causing them to deflate visibly and the van to lose control and sway dangerously from side to side. As it passed them in its crashing route, John shot another bullet at the right tyre at the back, to speed up the inevitable stop it was to grind to, simultaneously making sure they couldn't escape. 

They ran after the van as it skidded and crashed into a pole, though speed was slowed down considerably so that it was almost a surety no one inside was hurt. 

No one tried to come out of the van, and John could hear Harry's voice shouting, "Let me go!" In a voice so full of panic that John's blood boiled, and seeing red he dashed towards the back door, yanking it open with such force that the resulting bang startled everyone, even Sherlock. 

He had acted rashly, without considering if anyone inside could have also had a gun, but John couldn't care less. 

Inside there were five people other than Harry: three men and two women, all in their early to late twenties. 

Out of the three in the backseat, a man and a woman held Harry roughly, who looked horrible. Perspiration and tears had caused all the make-up to run down her cheeks, her cropped hair standing in all directions, and a few bruises visible on her hands and neck. There was no sign of sexual assault, however, though she looked harassed and furious. 

"John!" She broke out with relief, and once again angrily struggled against her captors. "You fucking assholes get your fucking hands off me!" 

Sherlock came into view behind John, ready to help in whatever way necessary, scanning the inhabitants of the van to deduce what ammunition from their lives was necessary and can be used against them easily. 

John had his gun pointed at them threateningly. "Let her go." He commanded almost, his voice was filled with an air of authority that Sherlock loved and the calmness that he'd already perceived was one not to be trifled with. 

Clearly, though most of the gang was intimidated, there remained that one overconfident member who was, as all gangs have and need, the one with a huge ego, short temper and fancied himself the leader of his little group. 

The man, Eric, whose name was discerned from a cry of surprise from one of his mates after the following action, jumped out from behind the two people holding Harry and attacked John with a sharp knife. 

His first mistake,and the only one he was allowed. 

Easily, though with great skill, John hit the wrist of his attacker with the butt of his gun, hard, causing Eric to nearly drop the knife in pain, and his hand that did not hold the knife lunged forward to throw a right hook at John's stomach. 

Not a bad aim, and the asshole almost hit John, but the army doctor would rather eat mud than take punches from a small-scale con artist. He absorbed the blow with his right hand, and brought his foot up to knee Eric in the stomach. 

Eric doubled over in pain, and John elbowed him cleanly in the back, causing him to fall face first onto the gravel; and from what it looked like, have his nose broken. 

The army doctor pointed his gun at the crumpled form and then looked at the members still inside the van, challenging them to come and try to fight him. 

The man holding Harry, who Sherlock deduced had closeted romantic feelings for Eric despite having been bullied by him several times; rose to lunge at John for what he'd done to Eric, but Harry, freeing herself, chinned him hard, and kicked him out the van, shoving him aside to escape. 

The woman holding Harry drew out her knife and slashed at Harry's arm just as she was exiting the van. Harry cried out in pain, but ran over to John, and the two siblings hugged each other tightly, blood still oozing out of her right forearm. 

Seeing the need for medical assistance, Sherlock took the gun from John and raised it towards the perpetrators. 

The man at the wheel tried to escape and started the car, his feet pushing at the gas pedal, but the car moved only but slightly, running over the foot of Eric's secret admirer as he howled in pain. 

Irritated, Sherlock shot, though almost missed, the fourth tyre, dismissing the thought of escape altogether. 

Behind him, John tended to Harry's wound the best he could, and just as Sherlock was about to spew his deductions about them all to keep the idiots sufficiently baffled, a woman walked up to them. 

Clearly a spectator to all of this, she looked very frightened, as though trying to guess who the bad guys were, Sherlock and John, or the others. It was surprising that she hadn't recognised them yet. 

"Yes, call the police." Sherlock resolved the conflict she'd been having so clearly, not waiting for her to say anything, and the woman nodded fervently and dialed the number. With a shaking voice and a lot of help from Sherlock she managed it, and was very relieved when John assured her they had everything under control and that she could leave. 

There were a few other cars and passers by who'd stopped to look at the scene, clicking pictures from where they stood. No doubt this was going to be in the newspapers tomorrow. 

"John," Sherlock said, as the doctor got up from tending to Harry. "How is she?"

"It's just a slight graze, I'll put antiseptic and patch it up soon enough."

"Go now." Sherlock suggested, bringing up a hand to stop the flurry of protests John was about to make. "I can handle them. They're barely a group of teenagers who want to be rebellious and get some quick cash."

This of course, was far from the truth: they might be all that Sherlock had described, but they certainly were not harmless, and more dangerously, were very desperate. 

John could not leave Sherlock all alone. 

They were, thankfully, saved from the arguments, as a police siren was audible not too far away, and less than a minute later, Lestrade himself getting out of the car. 

"Mycroft called." He explained, and Sherlock, not ungratefully, nodded. He gave a look to John, urging him to go. 

"Her testimony…" John trailed off, wanting to take Harry to Baker Street but not wanting to make a mistake that would let the perpetrators slip off. 

"I'll take care of it." Sherlock assured him, "don't worry."

'I-- thanks." Once again, John's ugly words came back to him, and once again, he swallowed an apology. Once again, it was not the right time. "I'll take Harry to Baker Street." 

"No, John. Take me to my flat, it's closer." Came Harry's voice from the pavement, as she leaned against a wall. 

"I'll need to treat you Harry, I need the medical equipment." John asserted, helping her get up. 

"No need,  _ aaah _ ." Harry winced as she stood up. "There's a proper first aid box at the flat, gauze and everything. Clara bought it after the last-" she paused to wince again, this time due to the painful memory, "-- accident." 

John remembered it, a swollen eye and bruised leg after a particularly bad fight at the bar when she was too drunk to remember her own name. She hadn't changed since. 

_ Even after Clara left her _ , John thought with not inconsiderable resentment. 

_ Something needs to be done, _ he thought. 

The ride to her flat was quiet, and it gave time for John to organize his thoughts. 

Harry looked sober now, though tired and visibly shaken. 

When they reached the flat, John opened the door to a dusty and mouldy living room. Harry gave him a sheepish smile, and tried to throw some things back in place. She yelped loudly when her wound pained, and John made her sit down. 

After a few directions to where the Medical Box was, John cleaned up Harry's wound and tended to it with all the efficiency and care that he would administer to a patient. 

Harry looked on as her brother carefully bandaged it, admired how he did it with such capability, and smiled a little. 

John however, was still quite pissed at her, and ignored her bout of sisterly fondness completely. When he was done with it, he went inside to her room. 

The flat was a sorry sight to see. Things were strewn around haphazardly, a few articles of food too, he noted with disgust, and an empty bottle of alcohol lying on the floor. 

His temper rising, John tried to clear the area and open the windows as much as he could, and straightened the bedsheets, with a jerk in all his actions that came from the yet unexpressed anger. He had had enough of it. 

"Harry." He called out to his sister, not particularly kindly, and did not return the smile or surprise, nor the 'Thank you John' and the squeeze of his arm accompanied by it. 

Harry sat down on the bed, her hand worrying at the edge of the sheet laid on the bed. She could sense The Talk coming. 

"I'm taking you to Rehab tomorrow." There was no element of discussion in John's voice or in his words. He looked on steadily at her, ready for whatever rebuke she had ready. 

"What? No! I'm not going." Harry replied with some surprise, not expecting such sudden and direct attack. "And besides," she added, "I've been to rehab, remember? didn't work out for me now, did it?"

"Oh that was because you were smuggling bottles of vodka in before the week was over, Harry, and tried to run away once. That's not called 'going to rehab'." John replied, irritated. 

"Look, just forget it okay? I'm fine now, you can go if you like." 

"Oh, sure Harry, I'll leave until the next time you wish to grace us with one more of these stunts. Drinking yourself to the point of  _ passing out _ and almost being  _ kidnapped _ and probably assaulted by strangers wasn't enough once, was it?"

It was cruel and he knew it, but John had reached his limit. He could not see her destroying herself any longer. 

The words stunned Harry for a minute. Then, finally the full reality of her situation dawned on her and her shoulders shook slightly as she sobbed. 

John hadn't meant to distress her so badly, and guiltily went to comfort her. 

She swatted his hand away with power, and shouted at him angrily. "Oh I'm sorry John, that I don't have a perfect life, with fame and money. Oh," and she added bitterly, "and a boyfriend apparently."

"I-- it's not like that Harry."

"But it is, isn't it?" She said, not so much shouting anymore as choking back tears, "it is a fact that you were always the 'normal boy', the 'Ideal Son', and I was the freak. I was the disappointing element. I was the one who got slapped because I was a  _ 'faggot' _ ," she spit out the word bitterly like it was poison, "I was the one who got kicked out." 

Her voice grew stronger as she continued, spilling out all her thoughts and emotions she'd kept bottled up, the things they never talked about. 

"I was the one who had to go through all that shit while you remained the apple of their eyes. And now that they're gone, you suddenly come up with a boyfriend, and become the poster boy for gay people." 

She chuckled bitterly through the tears. "Fucking hilarious isn't it?"

"Harry I--" John trialed off, standing speechless as she accused him of all the things he'd hadn't had the guts to do, to ever apologize for, to ever talk out loud about. 

The memories, all of them, came reeling back to him, and for a few seconds, he reviewed all the moments that made the coward that was John Watson. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey I hope you're enjoying the fic, and some sad stuff is coming next, then a happy scene!


	13. A Thousand Apologies by John Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past catches up, some long due apologies, and some much needed apologies are made, and a wistful conversation across the phone.

The harsh illumination of the tube light flooded the small room, and in it, stood John-- frozen, with his hair not a warm golden under the light, but a sickly bright white.

His sister glanced at him momentarily, looking for some sign of support, but John, just stood there glued to the ground, pathetically bearing witness only. 

The Watson house always did have bad lighting, but that day it was somehow even worse, sucking out whatever little colour the house had, and replacing warm soft curves with sharp dark corners. The room folded in on the four of them. 

John's mother, sobbing weakly in the shadows, already fading away. 

Harry, standing near the doorway, backed up against the wall with a fear gripping hold of her. 

Back then she still had long hair, auburn, tied up whenever possible, and the shadows underneath her eyes weren't as deep. Her eyes were red, though not from drinking. No, that had started  _ after _ this night. 

She was shivering, John thought he remembered, but this memory had been pushed away, locked up and distorted so many times it was hard to tell. And yet, now that it had come back, he could do nothing but face it. 

His father had stood a few paces from her, trembling with all the anger inside him building, and John only flinched as his father hurled slurs at his own daughter. 

Harry had promised she was "cured", had promised to drop the whole girls deal. She had, John knew. And yet, something had gone incredibly wrong. Somehow, she had been exposed. 

He could see it in her, in their father, and John could only wonder what it had been; perhaps a girl had come to drop her off, or their father had caught her kissing one. 

That didn't matter, none of it did, if John's father was as angry as he looked to be. John took a deep breath, telling himself, that the goal here was to ensure they made it out of this night alive. 

The older man raised his hand to strike, and John knew he would have no qualms that it was a woman he was striking, or that she was his own daughter. 

But then Hamish Watson did something much worse. He dropped his hand limply, and turned around a little, so that John could see in his eye what he could already sense in the atmosphere. 

His father had a look of utter and absolute hatred in his eyes. For a moment John was scared he might do more than just hit her with his hands, perhaps use a rod or an axe. But it wasn't a physical blow that Hamish Watson landed. 

"No faggot shall stay under my roof." He said in a quiet, deadly whisper. 

Beside them, John's mother started sobbing louder, entreating her husband to reconsider. Harriet was their daughter after all. 

"A freak is no daughter of mine!" He almost spat it out, and there John witnessed a strange phenomenon. 

Harry stood in front of their father, whom they had in their infancy been terrified of, and as they later grew up had despised, hated, had physically fought with; and he had now disowned her. For all she'd dreamt of getting out of here, Harry was undeniably hurt. 

"Dad--" her voice broke, because surely he wasn't serious, she was only sixteen, in no shape or form ready to live on her own. 

"Don't ever call me that again. I want you out of my house when I wake up tomorrow."

He turned his back on her. He was drunk, yes, and even more dangerous for it, and John non-verbally asked Harry to wait, and said with a carefully regulated voice, "Dad, please."

It was the wrong move. But any move would have been the wrong move. 

In a single fierce move, his father's hand was on John's collar, shoving him up against a wall, knocking the air out of him. 

"What, you're a freak like her too?" 

John's eyes widened, his breath hitched as a memory floated uppermost to his mind. 

"No." He croaked, looking directly into his father's eyes, wishing nothing would betray him. 

"Good." 

His father dropped him onto the ground with force, and John braced his hands on the wall as he got up, dusting off some imaginary specks of dirt. 

Harry looked at him, mute, frightened, silently crying for help. He looked at his mother, already knowing it was a lost cause, for any way out. Their mother lay there crying, wasting away, limp. 

And John should have said something. He should have fought with his father, should have refused to let Harry go, should have gone with her. 

Instead, he looked down at his hands, just as helpless as Harry was, only sixteen as Harry was, and shamefacedly helped her pack. 

They would send her food and check on her every day after this as she stayed, at one friends place, then another, before finding a small abandoned shed. 

And some nights if their father was passed out cold from drinking by eight at night, she would sneak into their room and sleep, and leave quickly at dawn. 

And John would help her do all this. But not what he should have done. 

There in the palm of his hand, he held, guiltily, his own little secret, and so he didn't look his sister or his father in the eye, and dwelled in his cowardice. 

\----

They were all tired and sweating profusely now that rugby practice was over, and the setting sun painted everything around them in a golden haze, their voices ringing with laughter as they walked back home. 

John's and Adam's home was the furthest, and soon they were walking alone, having waved everyone else goodbye. Adam was a foot taller than John, lean in his build and soft spoken, and John smiled widely in return as he laughed at something John had said. 

Looking back, John was sure there was an air of expectation around them. Things around them had quietened down, making space for something, something of importance. 

Abruptly, their conversation had stopped, and try as they might, they could think of nothing to say. 

As if a shock of current had passed through them, they turned to each other at the same time with a jerk of their heads, eyes wide and mouths slightly open. 

The moment balanced itself precariously on their fragile desires, on their isolation, and they tentatively brought their faces closer, until--

In the background there was the sound of the breaking of twig, and that was all it took for the moment to topple off the edge. They jumped away, alarmed, embarrassed, hoping no one had seen them. There was no one in sight, and John sighed, relieved. Then looked at Adam and looked away just as quickly. 

The moment was far from gone, it had never existed now, and still without meeting each others eye, they bid hasty farewells even though it would take at least a few more minutes before they would have to go their separate ways; John ran ahead leaving Adam behind. 

His heart thumped wildly, not just from the running as his mind processed what had just happened. Or rather what could have. It wasn't wrong, John told himself. Harry herself was a lesbian. It could not be wrong. 

And yet the ugly feeling of having done something forbidden, something that was against the normal course of nature, remained. He tried to ignore it, and focussed on a more real matter at hand. 

He could not be… different. He needed to stay 'normal', it was essential that he remained that so that he could-- John hated to admit it-- so that he could remain on his father's good side, whatever cruel joke that was. 

This was important, however, for there could come a time that their father could find out about Harry, and John needed to be able to defend her, to help her. 

Yes, that was what it was about, he explained to himself. He could not, because he needed to be able to help Harry if the time came. 

The time did come. 

And John did nothing. 

*****

There was another loud crash, and this time they could not ignore it any longer. Both of them, together, sat up on the beds a few feet away from each other. Harry was crying, John could hear her sniffles, and John had hastily wiped a tear too. 

_ Boys don't cry,  _ his father had told him with a thump on his shoulder which was a bit too hard to have been friendly. He had understood. 

With smooth, silent motions John slid off his bed, as did Harry, and they peeked out through the small gap between the door and the wall, that was always there because the lock was broken. 

They could only see a sliver, and were too afraid to try and open it any wider. 

There was a loud smacking sound with a slurred, angry shout, and they heard their mother muffle a cry. 

It was what she always did. To try not to cry out too loud, and hide her bruises under tufts of hair or scarves the next day. 

They were seven, Harry and him, and they held onto each other desperately, frightened, angry. 

"I hate him!" Harry whispered with emotion, as harsh a word as the child could muster, her tiny body trembling with rage. She made a move, to open the door wider, but John stopped her. 

"Don't Harry." He said, his anger equally evident. They both knew what had happened the last time they'd tried to interfere. 

Their father had sent them flying without hesitation, and it was a lot more difficult to hide their bruises when they went to school the next day. 

Their mother had, in her gentle, patient voice that was edged with desperation, asked them to promise to never come out of their room again, when mummy and papa were having a "small disagreement." 

Harry had looked like she wanted to oppose her mother, but there was a sliver of fear in their mother's eye that made her stop. 

It was perhaps with the memory of that same fear that Harry stopped now too, and they made their way back to their beds. 

Before long however, they both sat up at another loud crash, and Harry murmured, "John, I'm scared." 

"Me too." He'd whispered back. 

Harry budged a little in her narrow bed, and drew her quilt, making space and an offer. In the dim light John could make out that empty spot, and was only too glad to accept. They hugged each other tightly, flinching with every sound that came from the living room. 

Suddenly, Harry said to John, with the unbreakable determination that only children have, "John, I will always help you, whatever happens."

John felt delighted by this without being touched or emotional, as only a seven year old could feel, and replied with equal faith, "And I will always help  _ you _ , no matter what happens." 

They giggled a little at their seriousness, and then fell quiet, and as hours passed somehow managing to sleep with the 'argument' still going on outside; and were, if nothing else, oblivious in their slumber. 

\----- 

The memories embedded themselves in John's brain like bullets one after the other, his cowardice plastered like black ink onto his hands. 

He had fallen to his knees, and now be clutched at Harry's arms as he looked at her face, haggard and wrinkled and shrivelled with the burden of many years. 

The voice in his head, that knew him well, better than anyone else, whispered into his ear. " _ You did this to her John. The day you let her get kicked out of her home _ ."

Tears clouded John's eyes and he stuttered a little as the pain in his chest grew and suffocated him. 

"Harry I-- I shouldn't have let him-- I should have stood by you." All the other times in the future he had helped her were irrelevant. All the times she'd let him down culminated to the one time  _ he _ had let her down. 

And though he didn't deserve it, Harry held his outstretched arms, and whispered, "Yeah, you should have." 

They embraced tightly, feeling lighter than they had in a very long time. 

No, the problem had not gone away. John's words had scarcely been an apology. 

But the dark shadow in the corner of their relationship had finally been brought into the light. And that was a beginning, if nothing else. 

They sat like this for a long time, shedding all the tears together that they'd had to shed alone, apologizing, and not quite forgiving each other. 

Finally they let go, and John stood up, tucking her into bed, and picked up a dirty plate in the corner preparing to leave, when Harry called out to him. "John?" 

He turned around to find she had budged a little and drawn her blanket, making space for him, once again a silent offer. It would be very silly to do it, awkward even, and yet-- John giggled, and Harry joined him. 

He put away the plate and lay down next to her. 

It was awkward, definitely. Their petite childish bodies had been stretched into adults, and the innocence had died away long ago. 

And yet they lay, hands touching, but not quite, feeling a little like children again in their cramped bedroom, finding strength in each other when there was nowhere else to go. 

The 'like old times' hung in the air like a warm lamp, and the silence slowly grew comfortable, lulling their tired minds and bodies to sleep, where, for once, they were once again oblivious. 

\------

When John woke up, snuggled up next to Harry, he gave a faint chuckle before carefully getting out of bed, his head a little heavy with sleep. Harry looked like she would be out cold for at least an hour or two more. 

Closing the door to the bedroom behind him as he exited out of it, John entered the living room, surveying it with a wary eye. It would need a good clean up. 

He pulled out his phone, it was seven thirty in the evening, and there was a text from sherlock. 

_ I handled it with the Yard. They're in custody now. How is Harry? _

Something heavy settled on John's chest, and despite the rest he felt very tired all of a sudden. He looked around him, and noticed, just how much her flat looked like his, in its gloominess and desolation, though his flat was a lot cleaner. 

Well, his flat before he moved in with Sherlock.

Sherlock.

_ "And now you suddenly come up with a boyfriend, and become the poster boy for gay people." _

Harry had said to him, and he remembered the bitterness in her voice, the accusing tone. 

And yet, Sherlock wasn't his boyfriend. The fact stung, why he didn't know, and John deliberately ignored it.  _ This is all a game, an act, _ he reminded himself. 

And it was John who had the most to lose if he went any further. 

Shaking his head, he kept his phone back inside, not wanting to answer the text just now. 

John set about picking up what he could and arranging the furniture, taking quite a few bottles to the bin. 

It had been about twenty minutes since he'd woken up, when he heard noises in the bedroom, and a very disheveled Harry stepped out a minute later. 

She looked at the significantly cleaner living room with a gasp, and then punched her brother in the arm playfully,"You neat-freak, thank you!" 

" _ Someone _ had to do it." John remarked, "It looked like a pig's sty."

"Oh piss off." Harry said, giving him an annoyed look, immediately going to the kitchen and opening the fridge. "Christ I'm hungry."

They ordered take out, and sat down to eat by a quarter to nine in the small living room, crap telly providing background noise as they talked more than they had in months with one another. 

At first John was careful to steer the conversation away from Sherlock, he still didn't want to think about him, but it was inevitable that it be brought up eventually. 

"So Sherlock Holmes huh." Harry put it out in the open, but with a firmness that suggested he could not deflect it this time. 

"Yes. Sherlock Holmes." 

John repeated dully, already weary of the conversation that was to take place. 

"I mean, he is gorgeous." She said with a look of approval, and John tried not to smile. "You said, it wasn't 'like that'." She grew a bit more serious. 

"I--- Harry, I don't want to talk about him. Things are… complicated. And I'll tell you, just not now." He gave a tired sigh. 

Harry eased a little on him. He did look very tired. 

"Harry, also. Please, go to rehab."

It was Harry's turn to be weary now. "John, I've already--"

"Been there once, I know. But this time, really try yeah? And this time," John took a deep breath, taking care to look into her eyes to convey his sincerity, "I'll be there with you." 

It took a fair amount of convincing to get Harry even open to negotiation, but she knew. She knew that her body was tired too, giving up slowly. After all she had abused it for such a long time. 

That, and the look on John's face. He looked like he desperately needed her to go to rehab. It was his underlying guilt, she knew, stemmed from their argument in the afternoon, that propelled him to insist so fiercely. 

She finally said that she would think about it, and she meant it; her own feelings of guilt and misuse had come up, and there was a part of her that still wanted to get out of this, the lonely drunken stupor she lived in. 

John saw that it was progress, and left it there. 

It was almost ten now, and they were still somehow tired, and decided they wanted to call it a day early. 

And so Harry went to her room, and John lay the pillow and blanket on the sofa outside, ready to kip there for the night. 

He had considered going back to Baker Street, but he wanted to be with Harry until tomorrow, to see if her wound healed well and her hangover passed. 

With a small surge of panic he realised he hadn't texted Sherlock, which was surprising considering the time he'd spent thinking about the consulting detective. 

Quickly he pulled out his phone to text him, but stopped. There was a sudden urge in him to call Sherlock, to hear his voice. 

Perhaps it was natural, considering they'd been together all day every day for almost two weeks, but the acknowledgement of the desire made John's heart beat nervously. 

Without much examination of it though, he placed the call, his pulse quickening even more as he waited patiently, listening to the phone ring.

He took a few steps forward, looking out of the small window, as moonlight filtered in and made the room glow dimly. He wondered what Sherlock must be doing, alone in Baker Street. Probably another hazardous experiment. The thought made him smile. 

After a few rings, Sherlock answered, and John's heart leapt when he heard a tentative, "John?"

"Sherlock, hi. Sorry I didn't text or call earlier." 

"Oh, that's no issue. Mycroft informed me when you reached Harry's apartment." Sherlock's tone was polite and formal, to John's disappointment. He wasn't sure what he'd expected though. 

"Right," he said, licking his tongue, thinking of ways to keep the conversation going. "What happened to the kidnappers."

He heard Sherlock's signature scoff at the other end, and smiled. "They were barely thiefs, let alone  _ kidnappers _ ." Sherlock began,

"Just a group of college students who picked up drunk people and led them to their flats, robbing the apartments. It was easy because the victim would be too drunk to protest or remember who they were, and any neighbours would just assume they were good friends of the victim come to drop them off."

John was about to put in his own two cents about the gang, when he recalled something. "And, er, sherlock. How did you know which bar it was?" It had confounded John earlier that day, but there had been an emergency at hand, and he'd decided to ask it later. 

There was some hesitation on Sherlock's side. "There is," he paused, weighing his words, his tone decidedly cold and indifferent, "a certain jingle that they use to denote that the 'happy hours' have started, along with the verbal announcement of its beginning. Due to the, er, kind of patrons that they have, it starts at midday. I recognised the sound and therefore deduced which bar it was."

John did not ask him how he knew that. He already knew how. Sherlock had mentioned that drug addicts frequented the bar. John didn't need any further clues. 

"Brilliant." He said instead. And somehow, across the phone, he could hear Sherlock smile. "Oh, and I forgot to thank Mycroft. I doubt we could have found Harry as quickly without his help."

"Don't bother," the warmth had returned to Sherlock's voice, "his head is too big anyways. We don't want to make it grow any larger."

They laughed, and as it subsided, John cleared his throat to say what he had wanted to say for hours. "And Sherlock. Thank you." 

He didn't need to wax poetic, the two words held all the gratitude he had, and an apology for what he'd said earlier. Too much to expect two words to hold, yes, but somehow they managed to do just that. 

"You're welcome." Sherlock replied, "How's Harry?"

"Better now. I patched her up, and she's also warming to the idea of Rehab. Just need to find one good enough to convince her, I suppose." John chuckled. 

Sherlock hummed in reply. "That's good."

And then there was silence. 

The silence was not originally awkward in its nature, it could have been companionable were they sitting cozily at Baker Street. But here, across the phones, it was drawn out, noisy, as they each desperately looked around for a way to continue the conversation. 

It was strange, indeed, staying away from each other after long weeks of constantly being in each others' presence; they had, as the popular phrase goes, 'grown on each other'. 

The silence lasted well past fifteen seconds, to almost twenty, and finally, John heard someone in the background call out to Sherlock, likely Mrs Hudson, and their time was over. 

"I have to go John." Sherlock was relieved and disappointed at the same time. "Good night." 

"Good night." John replied, and his heart swelled as a sudden wave of affection overtook him. 

There was a pause where neither said anything, letting the static come through.

John sensed some movement on the other end, as if Sherlock was about to end the call, and on an impulse, called out. "And, Sherlock--" 

"Yes?" 

John didn't know what to say. He had said everything that he thought he'd wanted to say. Expressed his gratitude, his admiration. 

And yet the unsaid lingered in the air, and in the exhales of their breaths. 

But it was the unsaid, and for good reason. 

"Just, er," John was a little flustered, "I'll see you tomorrow."

Sherlock let out the barest of chuckles, that resembled a breath of relief more than anything else, and said with a voice that was as lingering as the air around them, "Yes, tomorrow." 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, but yeah another chapter up and next one coming soon, and I know this feels incredibly slow paced, but I promise the good stuff is coming soon!!  
> As always, please leave kudos and comments if you like the chapter and/or the fic!!


	14. Words Are Futile Devices (But Not Always)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a confrontation and some practice in intimacy. 

The next morning, they woke up a little later than usual-- Harry feeling drained yet a lot better; and John with an aching back from the couch. He had not slept too well, as he stayed up quite a bit after the phone call with Sherlock. 

He had lain contemplating nothing concrete, dancing around the fringe of what exactly was this phenomenon named Sherlock, and John's feelings for him. 

Now in the morning, at around 10, after making sure Harry's wound-- which was healing rapidly despite the alcohol abuse her body had endured-- was treated with some new bandaging, he decided to go back to Baker Street, and was about to leave, when he heard an angry shout from his sister. 

"What the hell, John?" She demanded, and John looked at the letter she was holding. "I told you that I was going to _consider_ it, not that I'd _agreed_."

"What? What are you talking about Harry?" John asked, peering at the paper. 

Her anger subdued when she realised that John looked visibly confused, and handed him the envelope. It was a pamphlet of some really posh rehab by the name of "White River Manor", and a voucher of some sort, covering most of the charges to a 3 month stay. 

"I-- I didn't do this Harry. I swear I have no idea what this is." John spoke, examining the contents to get some clue of who it was that had sent this. In the envelope there was a thin piece of paper, a receipt of some charges, made to a person by the name of M. Holmes. 

"Oh god." As it dawned on John, he passed a hand over his features. 

"It's- sherlock, Harry. I'm sorry." 

John remembered mentioning that to Sherlock the previous night. He hadn't guessed Sherlock would make such extravagant gestures. 

_Why was he doing all this?_

"Here," Harry handed it back to him with annoyance all over her features, "and tell your boyfriend to quit nosing around in others' business." 

John sighed, nodding, not knowing what else to say. He really had to go and talk to Sherlock. 

After apologising to Harry and hastily departing, John hailed a cab and went back to Baker Street. 

As he bounded up the stairs, giving Mrs Hudson a polite good morning, he heard Sherlock's voice call out to him, clearly under the assumption that nothing was wrong. 

"You're here nice and early. How did the thing with Harry go?"

As John came into view, however, the detective set down the slide he'd been examining, as John accusingly held up the rehab envelope, visibly annoyed, and possibly angry. "What the hell sherlock?"

"What? The brochure? You were telling me about Harry, so I thought I'd save you all the trouble and find you one. They gave a massive discount too when they found out it was Mycroft who'd wanted it, a nice little touch don't you think?" 

"No Sherlock. Not nice at all," John fought to keep his anger under control. "Look, I appreciate what you did for Harry yesterday, but you don't have to keep helping us. We're okay."

"Oh is it the cost you're worried about?" Sherlock waved his hand, as if dismissing all John's concerns, "Don't worry about it, Mycroft's got most of it covered, though if you--" 

He hit a nerve there. 

"For god's sake Sherlock, I said I don't need your help!" John growled, "and I don't need any benevolence from Mycroft either. My sister and I are managing fine without your help." 

"Oh," Sherlock said, hurt, not having expected his perfectly good intentions to backfire so hard. "I will refrain from interfering again."

"Yes. Good." John exhaled, his anger melting. They remained in silence for a while, neither knowing what to do next. As a step towards reconciliation, John asked, trying to make small talk. "How are you getting on with the case then?" 

If he'd thought that this would improve the atmosphere, it didn't work. 

Sherlock's face hardened, apparently John had hit a nerve too, and with an exceptionally polite tone, he replied.

"It-it will be alright if you do not wish to accompany me in my investigations, as I understand you disapprove of my methods. You needn't go out of your way to help me, you're already doing enough." He'd evidently been worrying about the matter while John was away, and his brilliant, genius mind had jumped to a lot on conclusions in the interval. 

As John looked on at the detective who didn't quite meet his eyes, the answer came to him on its own. _Oh, but I do. I do need to go out of my way to help you._

_Why?_ That was something that John didn't know the answer to, all he knew was that he'd made a mistake when he hadn't had the conversation about Sherlock's "methods" with him. 

"No Sherlock, I do want to accompany you to cases. It's just," John walked to what had become 'his' chair, motioning Sherlock to sit opposite. "I think--"

"Do we need to have this conversation?" Sherlock's voice was bored, deliberately so, like a rebellious teenager not wanting a telling off from his parents. 

"Yes," almost subconsciously, John slipped into his part of the concerned parent having 'the talk' with a thoroughly embarrassed son. "We do."

Though John had come with the intention of having a meaningful conversation, now that the opportunity presented itself, he wasn't quite sure what his actual words should be. He decided to begin with the core issue, the thing that had started the disagreement in the first place. 

"Sherlock, y'know, I understand that there are er, certain _methods_ , that you might employ to get the information you want, but sometimes, they're, um, a bit…" John looked about for words that were softer than "traumatising" and "terrorising".

"Psychopathic?" Sherlock looked up, meeting John's eyes squarely, and John could see the feigned nonchalance in them, and remembered the words Inspector Donovan had used for him that perhaps others had too, and realised why Sherlock was so defensive. ' _Freak, murderer, psychopath._ '

Not pretty words to hear about yourself all the time, or to have yourself rejected over and over without an explanation other than a few insults. 

John mentally berated himself. No, he wouldn't go that way. Sherlock was none of these things. 

So instead he took a minute to pause and think, and then hit on the phrase he wanted to use. "No, it's just, a bit not good."

The hostility that had been evident in Sherlock's features lessened, and so, an encouraged John continued.

"And I know, you're only doing this because you think it's kinder, but. It's not Sherlock. These people have often witnessed traumatic events very recently, and. Being harsh on them does not help at all.

"Just, be a bit more kinder to them the next time yeah? And," John chose his next words carefully, "if you, um, want me to that is, I can help you." 

Sherlock looked up sharply at him at this, as if analysing him, and John stammered a little, "by, er, help I mean- I mean that y'know I'll tell you when you aren't being a 'bit not good'. And then you can work on that, yeah?" 

Sherlock continued looking at him curiously.

He studied the earnest face and the uncertain eyes, and wondered just _what_ went into making people like John Watson. Wondered what went inside the brain of John Watson.

Inside the heart of John Watson. 

But Sherlock had the answers to none of these, and so just nodded mutely. 

John found out that all his 'preaching skills' had been used up quickly, and he felt very awkward now, sitting there under the detectives dissecting gaze.

He drummed his fingers in an unsteady rhythm on the armrest, trying to chuckle and failing badly as he rambled, "Right then, that's good. Great. Er, have you had anything this morning? I'm sure you haven't. I'll just make us a cuppa then."

Receiving no response from the detective, he emitted an even more awkward "Right." And set to go work in the kitchen. 

He put the kettle on, and took out the tea bags.

He was about to open the drawer to get his and Sherlock's cups, also known as 'the few pieces of cutlery not subjected to human parts', when he felt two arms slide around his waist and a long body pressing against his back, warmth circulating through John's body at the warm embrace. It was pliant against John's back, moulding into his smaller frame. 

Immediately, he turned around, still very much in Sherlock's arms, his pulse racing and short of breath. "Sherlock--what?" 

He gulped, coming to the full comprehension of their exact positions. 

John himself was leaning against the kitchen counter, and Sherlock with his arms around John's waist and face merely inches above his own. Had John ever mentioned the sheer amount of colours in Sherlock's irises? 

They were very beautiful, the pupils large, dilating almost hungrily as they consumed the turquoise irises. Sherlock was studying his reaction intently. In fact, this seemed the general mood he had today: dissecting John Watson with large cat-like eyes. 

"Does it make you uncomfortable John?" He asked, earnest, as he cocked his head to the side. "Mary had called earlier, asking if we were still practicing. Was horrified to know we'd been 'apart a whole night," Sherlock rolled his eyes, still very much cornering John. "She sent me a few websites to look at for a study in intimacy, I found this pose quite frequent and recognised as a form of intimacy. Mary said I should give them all a try. So, going back to the original question, does this make you uncomfortable?"

One might reasonably assume that John would have recovered his dignity in the time this explanation was given, but the situation there was even worse. 

Having to endure Sherlock's low baritone up close had not helped matters at all, not to mention this new side of Sherlock-- comfortable with this intimacy as opposed to the Sherlock who'd been reluctant to snuggle up to John the other day. 

John's mouth was dry as he managed to choke out a "Yeah I'm fine." 

Sherlock didn't look thoroughly convinced, but didn't probe further. “Well, then.” He released John, who quickly turned around and continued making tea in jarring, jerky movements. 

And thus began their study in intimacy. 

Throughout the day, they sat in close proximity to one another, often holding hands, or with an arm around each other, and once both had gotten over the initial shock of close contact, it was actually quite comfortable, John thought. 

It was also a time that put John to the test.

It would usually be some time when they were sitting together, or working in close proximity, perfectly friendly and straightforward; when an impulse would rise in the doctor. 

The impulse to do things that he wouldn't have dared to do before-- nothing untoward-- just those stupid, mundane fantasies about domesticity.

They would strike him before too, in the time before their current 'practicing', as he and Sherlock would be doing a household chore, or researching together. 

A yearning would spread through his chest, as he suddenly caught sight of the detective, and his fingers would twitch-- wanting, inexplicably to draw the man in front of him closer, to touch him. The feeling would sway in him, though not very potent, and John would be left distracted, not meeting Sherlock's eyes, his voice straining to appear normal as he tried to banish the thoughts from his brain. Trying to pretend they'd never crossed his mind. 

Now, however, he could indulge in them. Perhaps not as far as outright pulling him into his arms, but there were many, er _liberties_ , that John could take while they practiced.

The little voice in his head would lure him, _'It's alright. We're only practicing, it's all only acting_.' 

And John would do it. He would grab Sherlock's hand, let _his own_ hand rest on the other's thigh, rub circles on the detective's hand, inch a little closer, stare just a little longer.

Do all that, and if Sherlock ever looked up from whatever he was doing to analyse his movements, John Watson would put up a breezy, casual look on his face, pretending his heart wasn't slipping further and further into something very dangerous. 

Something that was a delicious temptation named Sherlock Holmes. 

\-----------

The atmosphere in the Baker Street living room was warm, cozy. Both the detective and his doctor were quite content after a dinner of rather good Chinese.

They were, moreover, getting used to each others' close proximity, and didn't flinch or freeze or do anything of the sort if the other touched him anymore. 

It was all quite innocent really, as they sat curled up watching crap telly-- well John watched crap telly while Sherlock was deep in thought about something--John’s arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, his hand resting at the nape of the detective’s neck. 

Almost involuntarily, John’s hands began to stroke the dark curls on the nape, and Sherlock, too distracted by his thoughts to pay attention to his own impulses, leaned into the touch. 

On gaining realisation of what he was doing, John stopped, for a split second, and was about to remove his hand, when the sly, smug voice in his head whispered, _‘There’s no harm in it, and plus, it’s all practice isn't it_?’ 

And like all the other times John had been indulging in his little impulses, he let it happen this time too.

If John was being honest, he had always wanted to know what it was like to run his fingers through those smooth luxurious curls, and well, now was his chance. 

With slow, deliberate motions, John stroked circles on Sherlock's head, taking his time to feel the soft texture of the hair. 

Beside him, Sherlock suddenly froze, and John hastily retracted his hand, an apology on the tip of his tongue. Had he gone too far and invaded Sherlock’s personal space? 

“No, it’s okay.” Sherlock spoke, turning to face John, “It felt quite good. Is this what couples do to each other John?” 

John gulped, sending a silent prayer to whoever it was that was looking down at them from the heavens. This man had no business saying things like that with _that_ voice _,_

_Good God._

Trying his best to sound mature and serious, John cleared his throat and nodded, “They do Sherlock.”

An absolutely sinister thought crossed his mind, and before his rationality could stop him, he blurted, “You could lie with your head in my lap y'know. You'd be more comfortable that way.” 

John’s heart thudded rapidly as he watched Sherlock make up his mind, wanting the detective to both accept and deny his proposal at the same time.

Sherlock consented, and trustingly laid down, stretching his long limbs over the couch, the end of his feet dangling off it. He placed his head onto John’s lap, and the latter found out very gratefully that his fears of having an untimely boner were completely unfounded. 

Instead, he found himself in awe of the scene below him. Sherlock looked other-worldly like this, up close-- his curls fanning around his face, the light from above them falling on his features to make them glow. Dark lashes decorated closed eyes, and his hands were joined in a contemplative, prayer like pose. 

John was almost wary of touching him, for the fear that the illusion would break. 

Gingerly, he laid his hands on Sherlock’s hair, barely touching them at first and then gradually gaining confidence, and letting his fingers reach deep into them, brushing his scalp, something he had not dared to do before. 

The effect on Sherlock was utterly unexpected and instantaneous. 

His eyes flew open, a moan escaping out of his mouth that sounded so surprised that it came out as a yelp. 

John couldn’t help it. He let out a giggle at this, and Sherlock looked up at him with a blush creeping from the collar of his shirt, and face looking very embarrassed and slightly confused. 

“I take it you...liked it?” John teased him, and Sherlock made a move to sit up out of annoyance. 

“No, no. Sorry,” John said, not hiding his laughter, and most certainly not sorry at all. “It’s alright, lie down.” 

Sherlock reluctantly complied, relaxing his shoulders. This time, when John slowly massaged his scalp, Sherlock was more controlled, and let out no further moans or yelps, though John had the impression that he was far too distracted to continue his intense intellectual exercise, whatever it was. 

However, as time passed, and Sherlock got used to the sensation of it, he relaxed onto John's lap, eyes languidly gazing at the doctor. 

After a while, they both dozed off to sleep. 

Neither, as anticipated, had gotten much rest the previous night, and with all the turmoil of the past two days, physical as well as otherwise, this time of peaceful, companionable silence became a safe place for their minds and bodies to cave in and let go. 

\-----

John woke up from his dozing, finding Sherlock still in his lap, fast asleep, and the telly murmuring in the background. 

He instinctively almost woke Sherlock up to get off his lap, when he stopped to look at him. 

This had become a pastime of his, he supposed, looking at the detective as he slept-- admiring the soft features and innocent expression.

He idly mused that one day, perhaps he would have seen that face enough to pick out every wrinkle, every fold of the skin, every expression-- and then stopped himself hurriedly. No, it would not do to get carried away like this, he had promised himself. 

And yet, it was exactly what he was doing. 

Giving in to his little impulses, to that dangerous voice in his head that said " _I wonder what it would be like to touch his hair, to hold his hand, to be close enough to pick out all the colours in his eyes…_ " 

Was it all that bad? Perhaps he could let himself have this, just this once. After all, when it would end, they would go their own separate ways, and he would never have the opportunity, so it would be safe. 

It was unlikely he'd ever meet Sherlock again after that, right?

 _Oh_. 

The statement was meant to comfort him, persuade himself to take up this one opportunity, but instead it hit him like a blow to the stomach. 

The air was knocked out of him as he realised fully the meaning of never seeing Sherlock again after a month. 

He looked down, half in a daze, at the halo that his hair had made as the dim lights fell upon it, his hands clutching, desperate, at the taller man's robe.

He'd grown so used to Sherlock in the short span of time they'd lived together. To the tantrums, the eccentricities, to his brilliance, and the way he spoke, and his violin, and--

All this would be gone in a month. 

_So the answer is clear isn't it?_ The annoying, yet accurate voice in his head spoke, _If you've only got a month, then you have to take it. Take the chance._

And so John did. 

He reached for the remote, turned the telly off, and settled comfortably into the couch, already apologizing for another night that his back would have to survive sleeping on a 'not-bed'. 

Then, John stroked Sherlock's hair softly as he laid his head onto the headrest of the couch, and let sleep lull him into safety. 

And, by a stroke of luck, no nightmares plagued either man, and their breaths evened as the moon shone bright above them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yesss I added a lot of fluff because they were having a rough time before, and things are just gonna get better for like a chapter more!!!


	15. Behind the Lens, Under the Ruse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kissing lessons and a cover up story

The waking up from a night on the couch together was...well, anticlimatic. John had woken up to discover Sherlock was already awake and bustling about the flat. 

The detective was in no talking mood, and therefore didn't answer beyond a "hmph" when John expressed his surprise at the (not very good) cup of tea that he'd made.And yet the gesture was taken kindly and much appreciated, and the few jokes that John did make at the detective's expense were taken with a not-so-well hidden smile. 

Sherlock told John that Mary had called to inform them that she was coming to Baker Street by ten; and unsurprisingly, as the clock was a few minutes past ten o'clock, the bell to the front door below rang. 

There was some commotion below that took a bit longer than usual and a pleasant sound of surprise from Mrs Hudson. Mary came upstairs all smiles, with two extra people and a lot of baggage; and before either of them could ask what had occurred below, she derailed both their thought processes with a gleeful smile and the words, "Today we're going to practice kissing!"

*****

As it turned out, kissing was  _ one _ of the items on the day's schedule, but not the only. 

They were first to have a round of interview questions, and no notice was given to prepare for it so as to have them rely on their quick thinking, and instinctively choose lies which were closest to the truth. 

The first round would be individual questions, and Mary brought out recording equipment from her rather large bag, and she and her two assistants set it up, the camera facing the couch, and Mary this time, thankfully, sitting in the chair next to the table. 

It was Sherlock's turn first, and John was asked to sit in the bedroom and  _ not _ eavesdrop. Mary was firm that they have no extra time to prepare for the questions. 

While the hosts of the show would usually have a set of pre-approved questions, they could smile and cheekily ask something  _ not-good--  _ and in such a situation, with a live audience also sitting there, not answering a question could possibly lead to more suspicion than if they  _ did _ answer it. 

So John went into their bedroom and waited nervously for his turn. Christ-- he did a double take-- had he just called this  _ their _ \--his and Sherlock's-- bedroom? 

He heard noises outside, of people talking, the deep baritone of Sherlock’s voice replying, the sound of equipment being moved around. He tried to think of questions Mary would ask, made appropriate replies in his head. Would she ask questions like, what was Sherlock’s favourite colour: the kind they asked couples to see how well they knew each other. He wondered whether Sherlock  _ had _ a favourite colour. Or was it too mundane or silly for him? 

Idly, he wondered what would it be if sherlock did have a preferred colour:  _ blue-- _ he thought, thinking about his robe and his shirts,  _ turquoise-- _ he thought about the swirling colours in the detective’s eyes,  _ purple-- _ he thought about the fabric of that shirt stretched taut across the wide chest--

“John.” Sherlock’s voice broke into John’s thoughts, startling him. John gulped, and turned to look at the detective from his position at the bed, embarrassed at being caught by Sherlock while he was thinking  _ about _ Sherlock. The last image,  _ purple _ , still hovered in his consciousness, and he looked away from the taller man as he tried to dispel it. 

“It’s your turn now.” 

John turned back to Sherlock, hoping for some cue, verbal or otherwise, about what he was to face outside. If Sherlock noticed it he said nothing, and simply held the door for John to exit. 

Outside, Mary was ready with the camera, sitting with a smile, holding a writing pad in her hands.

"Hello John" she greeted him, and somehow managed to give the distinct impression of a TV host. Perhaps it was the artificial cheerfulness, the edge to her voice that showed that she perceived everything, that gave her the air. 

John sat down on the couch, reminding himself of his role: the lovesick boyfriend. 

He loosened his muscles, taking a few seconds to sit comfortably, his left ankle propped on his right knee, leaning back, trying to look at ease. 

Mary was pleased with this, and though she showed some apparent determination to be completely in character as the gossip thirsty host, she gave a look of approval to John. 

"So, John," she smiled wider, "How are you feeling?"

The atmosphere was pleasant, and thus John was not entirely acting when he let out a little laugh. "Fantastic. Never been better." He spread out his arms, to show his state of well-being, playing well the part of a man newly in love. 

"We'll get directly to the questions," Mary said, referring to her pad. "Are you and Sherlock Holmes in a relationship?" 

John grinned in what he hoped was a convincing manner, "It's pretty new, but yes, we are."

"What do you like most about him?"

John paused, considering. Images, flashes of reality sped through his mind. 

_ Sherlock’s eyebrows scrunching when he analysed his experiment intently, his eyes lighting up when he solved a case, his laugh, sherlock playing the violin, his gasp when John touched his hair last night, Sherlock sleeping, peaceful _ . 

There were a million things that came to his mind, each a worse admission than the previous one. 

"His intelligence." John said, "he's so clever and he can deduce everything about you from just a look. It's brilliant. Fantastic." He smiled sheepishly, "I don't think I'll ever get tired of him doing that." 

This wasn't a lie. Nowhere close to it, really. John was utterly struck by Sherlock and his advanced mind, of his almost magical abilities. Only he was also equally struck by  _ other _ things _ ,  _ which were better not admitted. 

Mary laughed too, "That's amazing." She wrote something on her sheet, then went,“What’s the most annoying thing about him?” She gave him a mischievous smile. 

“Oh most definitely the human body parts in the fridge.” he laughed, but Mary did not. She simply nodded and wrote something on the sheet.  _ Wrong answer maybe? _

“So John,” Mary returned to her artificial smile, “What do you think of the prophecy?” 

_ Ah, interesting _ . John had anticipated this question of course. He’d chosen to play it safe. “I, personally, do not believe in them. But I am grateful for this one especially, for bringing me to Sherlock. It's,” he hesitated, before deciding to say it, all of this was a lie anyway, “probably the best thing that ever happened to me.” 

Mary then moved on to a few more mundane questions about their life in baker street, and John pretended that the lie he had given wasn’t too close to the truth. 

\-------

Once they were done, Sherlock was called into the living room, and the two of them were made to sit on the couch, as Mary inserted the footage of their interviews onto the tv screen. 

“Sherlock's first.” Mary said, remote in hand, ready to pause the footage to point out their errors. 

The screen lit up, and John saw Sherlock sit on the couch, unbuttoning his jacket and settling in comfortably, just as John had tried to. The sunlight from the outside threw his features into a natural contrast, and John thought that his face was made for television. 

“Hello, Sherlock,” he heard Mary say from behind the camera, “How are you today?” 

The detective looked like he wanted to say something along the lines of ‘Just like I am every other day’, but Mary gave him a look, John supposed, and Sherlock gave a polite, “I am doing good.” 

“Are you in a relationship with John Watson?” Mary ran the same questions by Sherlock.

“Yes, as of today, 16 days and 42 hours since our relationship first began.” He said it in a matter-of-fact, very peculiarly  _ Sherlock _ way. 

John turned to him, surprised, “Really?” 

Sherlock hummed in assent, “I just reproduced a number just a few days short since we first met.” 

“Oh.”  _ Well, there's the damned big brain I was talking about.  _

On the screen, Sherlock shifted, and leaned forward as Mary asked her next question, “What do you like most about him?” 

Sherlock leaned back now, considering the question. 

On the other side of the screen, John gulped, wondering how Sherlock would answer the question. What could someone like Sherlock like in a person like John? 

"John isn't a very intelligent person," Sherlock began, and then paused at the look at Mary gave him from behind the lens, and then put up a hand to wave away her concerns, "don't worry, most people aren't all that intelligent too. But he is a very capable doctor and soldier, and most of all, though he is not very bright himself, he is particularly adept at stimulating it in others; it is almost like he is," what seemed like a small smile appeared on Sherlock's features, surprisingly soft, "the conductor of light." 

Mary reacted to this before John could. "This!" She exclaimed pausing the video, "is a great line. 'The conductor of light'." She turned to face Sherlock, smiling, "remember this alright? It will get you a lot of public approval." 

Beside the detective, John was smiling too. Yes, the answer was distinctly Sherlockian, with both an insult and a beaming compliment, so that you weren't too sure which to focus on. 

That didn't mean that one couldn't tease Sherlock for it. “Conductor of light huh?” John nudged the taller man beside him, who at first was decidedly  _ not _ looking at him, and when he did, it was only to roll his eyes in apparent exasperation. “Shut up, it's just some flattery for the media.” 

John laughed at this, indicating he did not believe for a single second.  _ Just some fake flattery? Oh Sherlock. _ “Don’t be embarrassed, at least you said that I wasn’t very intelligent.” 

Sherlock continued behaving like a pouty child, and John continued pulling his leg for some more time until Mary put a stop to it with a few stern words, and resumed the footage. 

"What is the most annoying thing about John.” 

“Oh many things,” the Sherlock in the video began, causing an “Oi!” from John. The footage continued, “He often raises objections with my experiments, and is most unrelenting in his insistence that I eat something regularly. I do not eat, especially during cases, because digestion slows down mental processes. But John insists on feeding me, and all but shoves food down my throat.” 

Mary paused the video. “This is good. John is the caring boyfriend, and the audience will eat it up.” 

“Right then,” Mary’s voice echoed her laughter, “So, coming to the question everyone’s been thinking of, what do you think of the prophecy.” 

Sherlock smiled, nonchalant, “I am a scientific man, so forgive me for not believing in this prophecy.” he made an off-handed gesture, “Of course I am glad that it led to my meeting John, but other than that I think it's bogus.” 

“Now,” Mary once again hit the pause button, “this is… not that great. You really need to tone down with the ‘it’s bogus’ theme-- there are going to be people who really do believe in the prophecy and they’ll be upset if you shoot it down so directly.” 

Sherlock shrugged, he really couldn’t care less about these people who believed in such nonsense. 

Mary sighed, and persevered, “I’m not saying you need to buy tarot cards and magical stones. You can express that you personally do not believe in it.” Mary made a cutting gesture, “Keep it till you’re thankful for it leading to you meeting John. Don’t go further." 

“Fine.” Sherlock gave in, not very pleased but not feeling the sham was worth too much effort.  _ All of it was already based on a lie wasn’t it?  _

The statement stung a little though he wouldn’t admit it, and he discarded the thought as the video played again. 

Once it was over, Mary gave a short recapitulation of all her tips on what Sherlock could improve on, and then they proceeded to John’s. 

The screen lit up with the same couch in the background, except this time it was the army doctor seated on it. 

The John on the outside of the screen was mentally going through his interview, wishing he’d not said anything too embarrassing. 

On screen, he saw himself give a huge smile, “ _ Fantastic, never been better _ .” 


	16. Would you tremble, if I touched your lips?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two practice kisses, one rejected kiss, and a case to solve.

They'd breezed by John's interview, and other than a strict warning to not bring up Sherlock's, er, experiments on human body parts, John had played the role of the lovesick boyfriend exceedingly well. 

John had laughed at this compliment, yes, it had all been acting. 

Yes. Nothing more. Just acting. 

Mary handed them a few sheets that they were supposed to fill out later, along with a non-disclosure contract stating the terms John had already agreed to with Mycroft. Frankly, John was surprised it had taken the older Holmes so long. 

He was setting aside the papers, chiding Sherlock for not keeping his ones properly, when he cast a glance at Mary. There was a glint in her eyes, and a warning bell rang in the back of John's head: the kiss. 

As if she'd read his mind, Mary broke into a grin. "That's right! Time to practice kissing." 

Instantly both men stopped whatever they were doing to gape, as if they weren't aware of the possibility of this happening for a few weeks now. John, who had just started to stand up from the couch, paused midway. 

Sherlock's hand stopped fumbling with the papers abruptly,"I, er--" Sherlock stuttered. 

John continued to stand and then went to the desk,"Do we--" John fumbled with both his words and his hands as he tried to tidy up the papers on the desk in vain. 

"Dear god," Mary sighed, "I'm not asking you to go French or get off right here, y'know? A simple peck on the lips is enough."

They should have been comforted by this, and they were to a certain extent, but it still took a few minutes for them to finally face each other and attempt it. 

Sherlock stood up from the couch and faced John. They looked at each other, inching closer. 

John could feel blood rushing to his face and ears, and the hilarity of the situation suddenly struck him. 

He had the urge to laugh, and he looked up at Sherlock.

Silence. 

Then, they were both laughing, giggling. Mary made a few annoyed remarks, and then they did attempt to calm down, but some brief eye contact set them off once again. It was some time before they could be anywhere near serious. 

Once again, they faced each other, and instinctively John brought up his hand to cup Sherlock's face, at the same time Sherlock leant towards him with a jerk, both surprising the other, so that they let out a soft chuckle. 

This time however, they couldn't bring themselves to laugh. Something about their whole demeanor had changed. John's hands felt sweaty as his fingers brushed Sherlock's cheek, his tongue paralyzed, his heart nearly bursting out of his rib cage. 

Their eyes were open as they closed the distance between them, and with a final encouragement of "Fuck it" from his brain, John closed his eyes and journeyed the last centimetre.

Their lips touched for a second, and then each was kissing air. 

There was barely time to feel anything, and as much as there was disappointment pooling in his stomach, John was also very relieved. 

"Nice." Mary said, surveying them intently. "It's television anyway, people won't be able to take more than a few seconds of kissing from two men."

Just as John and Sherlock were feeling the relief of having crossed the bridge without burning it, Mary stepped forward and patted their shoulders. "Round two please. And this time don't jerk away like you've been electrocuted when you do it. Ta mates." 

"Round two?!" 

"Round two?!" 

Both John and Sherlock exclaimed at the same time, and proceeded to give each other slightly offended looks at hearing it from the other's mouth. 

"Yes round two. Now don't be babies about it and get to it." 

Grumbling, they stood in front of each other, calmer this time, though not happy with the second trial. John took a deep breath. 

Perhaps because it was that they'd already done it once, or that the shock had passed, or that there was a part of them eager to do it once more-- things went more smoothly than before. 

John would later recollect each moment of it perfectly. He'd lifted his left hand once again to Sherlock's face and leant forward, and this time, having evidently learnt from the previous attempt, Sherlock did the same. John felt his face being encompassed by a large hand and tilted upwards; somewhat clumsily, their lips met. 

John wasn't sure why, but he had expected Sherlock's lips to be harsh, dry. Instead, they were sweetly soft, firm in the space they occupied, demanding attention as they pressed against his own. They tasted faintly of the tea they'd had, and John realised Sherlock added a lot more sugar in the tea than he let on. The edge of his lips curled at the thought. 

They stayed like this for a moment, tasting each other, but chastely, trying to calm down their respective hearts and 'living in the moment' the best they could. 

After five long seconds, they drew back from each other, softer than before. Slowly, John opened his eyes, noticing they hadn't moved much further apart, drinking in how Sherlock looked up close after being kissed. 

His eyes were still closed, a faint pink tinging his cheekbones and ears, lips parted-- beautiful as always, like all things unearthly and divine. John clenched his other hand, curbing the bizarre urge to kiss the man again. Of course, this was just a normal reaction to kissing someone, he wasn’t gay or anything. After all, he’d kissed so many women, and this was the only man he’d kissed. What about Adam? echoed in his mind, and with a shake of his head he sent it away. 

Then Sherlock opened his eyes, and appropriately the spell was broken, both of them startled as they realised their hands were still on each other's faces. 

Understandably, things were a bit awkward afterwards, and this time when John jumped at the opportunity of escorting Mary to the door downstairs it was more out of not wanting to be alone with Sherlock than wanting to be alone with Mary. 

Of course, if a certain detective and a certain army doctor played a kiss a few times in their heads over the period of the next few weeks, no one was the wiser, and there was nothing to rebuke. 

*****

"Do you like it?" Mary asked John, smiling with intent. She was pointing towards a mantelpiece, a statue of L’Enfant Guerrier, the image of a knight on an ostrich. 

“What is it?” John asked, unsure of what the statue really depicted. 

“Warrior of Love.” 

“Oh,” John let out, subconsciously glancing upwards towards the flat above him. Great. 

Mary laughed. "Appropriate no? I've asked it to be placed here. Looks particularly good like this."

He paused then, to look at Mary and her animated eyes and her teasing smirk. John suddenly remembered the attraction he'd felt for her that had begun this-- them. Did he still want that-- want her?

He cleared his throat, not wanting to answer that question. 

"Right then," John said, eyes traveling over her features, in an attempt to rekindle the feelings of not too long ago. "Bye." 

"Yes." Mary said softly, and then something in her features changed. Her eyes seemed to melt into pools, and her smile eased into something mellow. 

The air around them thickened, the expectation of… something clouding it. Mary's breath seemed to catch in her throat and she leaned forward. 

John leant forward too, thinking, ' _Ah, this is what I'd been wanting all along, isn't it?'_

Their heads grew closer together, and John's heart was beating, quick and erratic, as he thought of how Mary's lips would taste. 

He imagined them standing, him bent forward, inching closer, her lips pliant-- suddenly the image in his head morphed into something else. Mary's lips were replaced by firm, yet soft lips. Placing a brief kiss on his own. Tasting like tea leaves and mint and sugar. 

Sherlock's lips. 

Abruptly, John drew back, with perhaps a mere inch between them, the overpowering feeling that he could not kiss Mary making him feel repulsed at their closeness. 

He stepped back, unsteady, looking at Mary in shock. 

For a split second, something very much like anger flitted through her eyes, but it was replaced quickly with a sad, disappointed look. 

"I see how it is," She laughed dryly, but without an edge. "You're in deep, John Watson." 

"Mary, I--" John couldn't explain why he'd done what he did, embarrassed at having recoiled like this. And yet, he realised, if they were to try again he would still behave the same way. 

Part of him was angry with himself, wasn't this what he had wanted all along? Why had he flirted with her and come down every time to see her out? 

Besides, he wasn't actually with Sherlock, there wasn't any obligation he had to the detective. 

_He doesn't even care about you_ , a voice hissed in his head. _He'll stop even thinking about you the moment this whole thing ends. What then?_

John had no answer, to neither the question in his head, nor to what he'd just felt and done. 

"What? You want to try again?" Mary asked, teasing John of course, but with a hopeful turn to her smile and eyes. 

John tried to imagine leaping forward and taking her lips in his, but inevitably, no matter how many times he tried, as soon as he reached her lips they became cupid bow shaped, and when he closed his eyes all he could see was a certain consulting detective lying with his head on John's lap, hair fanned out, eyelashes fluttering gently. 

The image was persistent and made little flutters of something arise in his chest. 

Mary chuckled, drawing John away from his thoughts. "You're a loyal man indeed, John." This time, there was a sting to her words. 

******

It had been a silent afternoon, as each marinated in the awkwardness, dancing around each other in awkward circles, far from resuming the ‘Practice in Intimacy’ that they were supposed to. 

It was 5 in the evening before there was any sound in Baker Street. Sherlock’s phone rang. There was a call from Lestrade.

New evidence had been found that had thrown the case on its head. The forensic report found only one pair of suspicious fingerprints, which were on a bottle of sleeping pills. The prints belonged to the victim’s son-in-law. 

John and Sherlock rushed to the Yard. Before this new evidence, both Lestrade’s and Sherlock’s leading theory had been that the culprit was the victim’s coworker, and the motive was assumed to be something to do with the project that Mrs Tilney had mentioned. They had been about to go to his office and look up some papers and begin questioning the employees. 

The fingerprints of course had thrown a wrench into that theory, and Sherlock was both annoyed at having been proven wrong and thrilled at the prospect of a challenge, and their awkwardness was forgotten for the time being. 

The sleeping pills bottle had not been paid much attention to initially, Mr. Tilney already took prescribed pills of the same brand, and a bottle on a side table had not seemed very important. 

“Do you think the son-in-law tried to drug him with these?” John asked Sherlock, as they surveyed the reports.

“Maybe, but…” Sherlock paused and looked up at John meaningfully. Ah, this was a cue for John to try and deduce it himself. Sherlock did this occasionally, and it made John feel childishly proud when he did reason correctly and received Sherlock's approbation. So he gave it a try.

“But there were signs of struggle on the victim. If he’d been drugged, the old man wouldn’t have put up much of a struggle. Besides,” John fiddled with a photo of the crime scene, “it wouldn’t have been so messy if he hadn’t put up a fight.” 

He was right, the crime scene was gory, with an overturned table, blood splatters on the walls, and an absolute miracle that more DNA evidence hadn’t been left behind by the murderer. 

“Yes, John.” Sherlock beamed, as proud as John was. “Good work.” The detective’s smile was contagious, and soon John was grinning too. Thumbing through the report, Sherlock continued. 

“There were definite signs of struggle, which means two things: either the pills were not administered and this is a red herring, or, that they were administered but did not produce its intended effects.” 

All in all, it took Sherlock twenty minutes to come to the correct conclusion, an additional stifling thirty minutes to work with the Yard to build up evidence. 

They could make the arrest by tomorrow. 

Apparently, it was the son-in-law who was the perpetrator . A search through the victim’s flat had produced some documents which looked like pieces of evidence to Mr. Tilney’s son-in-law’s gambling addiction. 

Mr Tilney seemed to have been collecting them since the past few years, perhaps threatening to show them to his daughter if the gambling did not stop. 

The son-in-law in question, Jared McArthy, had decided to come in one night, drug the man, and destroy the evidence while Julia McArthy was working a late night shift. 

A co-worker coming up to Mr Tilney in the middle of the night might have been suspicious, but a desperate son-in-law with some or the other pity-inducing excuse was not. After all, Mr Tilney only wanted his daughter to be happy. 

What Jared McArthy didn’t know, however, was that the pills he’d been planning to use to drug his father-in-law were the same ones that the latter had already been prescribed. 

Over time, a person using sleeping pills quickly develops an endurance for them, and so did Mr Tilney. He quickly recovered from the drowsy effects, and intercepted Jared in his attempt at destroying the documents. There was a scuffle, and in the panic of the moment, Jared McArthy plunged a knife into his father-in-law and became a murderer. 

The incriminating bottle and the documents that many labours had been undertaken for were left behind, Sherlock reasoned, due to the horror of having taken his father-in-law’s life, and appropriately Mr McArthy left in a haze of panic. 

All of this was explained by Sherlock, with some parts supplied by both Lestrade and John, and many interjections and exclamations of praise from both of them. 

The detective and his army doctor left the Yard in good spirits, picking up some takeaway, and even stopping by Mrs Hudson to have a cup of tea with her. 

She listened with great pleasure, as she always did with the cases, to their story, and whatever awkwardness of the morning was left, for the moment, had eased away. 

They chatted for some time, and suddenly Mrs Hudson recollected the mantlepiece Mary had bought. “I had no idea why she bought it, but really, it was ever so nice of her!” She exclaimed, “I asked her to stay for a cup of tea of course, but she was just in such a hurry, and then you came down, John.” 

John froze. Had Mrs Hudson seen anything? But her behaviour didn’t indicate that at all. He felt a blush creep to his neck, and cleared his throat, trying not to meet Sherlock’s eye. 

He hadn't even kissed her, John reminded himself, why was he feeling so awkward? 

Mrs Hudson began going on and on about the show-piece, and John tried to get involved in the conversation, hoping Sherlock hadn't caught on to anything.

But of course he had, he was Sherlock Holmes. 

And John watched it dawn on the detective, like some sick, painful joke. Watched as curiosity piqued in the taller man, as his eyes widened ever so slightly in realization, the split second of hurt that was quickly masked, and the features that hardened, betraying nothing. 

“Excuse me,” Sherlock said to Mrs Hudson, and went upstairs. His departure was met with silence. 

“John,” Mrs Hudson said softly, immediately sensing something wrong, “Is everything okay between you two? Was it something I said?” 

John looked at the worry lining her face, and affection bloomed in him, warm and sudden. Unexpectedly, he reached out and covered her frail hand in his, “No, its alright Mrs Hudson. Nothing’s wrong.”

What could he tell her anyway? That Sherlock was upset over a kiss that had never happened, that he himself felt guilty about it, that neither of them had the slightest right to have either of these feelings?

That it was all torturously inexplicable. 

That night Sherlock ate nothing, and John didn't insist on him eating either. And when they went to bed, the room was painfully quiet. 

When they woke up in the morning they would find themselves carefully apart from each other. 

******

Somewhere in London, two women lay naked in bed, languid, when a mobile phone rang. 

The woman with jet black hair picked up the phone, answering, "Hello Jim."

She was silent as she listened to the man on the phone talk. "Oh, pity." 

The man on the other end spoke some more, and she hummed, a smirk forming on her features. "Of course, why not. This will be fun." 

She listened to some specifications for a while and then cut the call. 

Getting up, she ran a hand over her partner's shoulders. "Kate, darling, we have an email invite to send." 

"You got the date then?" The other 

woman asked.

"Oh yes," The Woman replied, amusement evident in her voice, "It's a date." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I knoooooow it's been long I'm so sorry, but here are two chapters to compensate, and stuff will be moving a lot quicker now,, I solemnly promise! So they kissed, it was nice. Anyways the Woman is here, is that not nice?

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, this is my second multi chapter fic, and I'm very excited about it! I'll be putting up weekly updates and yeahhhh it's super cool that I'm posting it on their 10 year anniversary
> 
> Of course, all of this is possible because of my AMAZING BETA VANSHIKA who is a literal life saver and an amazing writer who made my whole story SO MUCH BETTER <333333


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